loo

Nay , but this dotage of our general’s
O’erflows the measure . Those his goodly eyes ,
That o’er the files and musters of the war
Have glowed like plated Mars , now bend , now turn
The office and devotion of their view
Upon a tawny front . His captain’s heart ,
Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst
The buckles on his breast , reneges all temper
And is become the bellows and the fan
To cool a gypsy’s lust .



Look where they come .
Take but good note , and you shall see in him
The triple pillar of the world transformed
Into a strumpet’s fool . Behold and see .

Perchance ? Nay , and most like .
You must not stay here longer ; your dismission
Is come from Caesar . Therefore hear it , Antony .
Where’s Fulvia’s process ? Caesar’s , I would say —
both ?
Call in the messengers . As I am Egypt’s queen ,
Thou blushest , Antony , and that blood of thine
Is Caesar’s homager ; else so thy cheek pays shame
When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds . The messengers !

Amen , dear goddess , hear that prayer of the
people . For , as it is a heartbreaking to see a handsome
man loose-wived , so it is a deadly sorrow to
behold a foul knave uncuckolded . Therefore , dear
Isis , keep decorum and fortune him accordingly .

We will not look upon him . Go with us .

No more light answers . Let our officers
Have notice what we purpose . I shall break
The cause of our expedience to the Queen
And get her leave to part . For not alone
The death of Fulvia , with more urgent touches ,
Do strongly speak to us , but the letters too
Of many our contriving friends in Rome
Petition us at home . Sextus Pompeius
Hath given the dare to Caesar and commands
The empire of the sea . Our slippery people ,
Whose love is never linked to the deserver
Till his deserts are past , begin to throw
Pompey the Great and all his dignities
Upon his son , who — high in name and power ,
Higher than both in blood and life — stands up
For the main soldier ; whose quality , going on ,
The sides o’ th’ world may danger . Much is
breeding
Which , like the courser’s hair , hath yet but life
And not a serpent’s poison . Say our pleasure ,
To such whose place is under us , requires
Our quick remove from hence .

She’s dead , my queen .
Look here , and at thy sovereign leisure read
The garboils she awaked ; at the last , best ,
See when and where she died .

So Fulvia told me .
I prithee turn aside and weep for her ,
Then bid adieu to me , and say the tears
Belong to Egypt . Good now , play one scene
Of excellent dissembling , and let it look
Like perfect honor .

You’ll heat my blood . No more !

And target . Still he mends .
But this is not the best . Look , prithee , Charmian ,
How this Herculean Roman does become
The carriage of his chafe .

Caesar , I bring thee word
Menecrates and Menas , famous pirates ,
Makes the sea serve them , which they ear and
wound
With keels of every kind . Many hot inroads
They make in Italy — the borders maritime
Lack blood to think on ’t — and flush youth revolt .
No vessel can peep forth but ’tis as soon
Taken as seen , for Pompey’s name strikes more
Than could his war resisted .

Antony ,
Leave thy lascivious wassails . When thou once
Was beaten from Modena , where thou slew’st
Hirsius and Pansa , consuls , at thy heel
Did famine follow , whom thou fought’st against ,
Though daintily brought up , with patience more
Than savages could suffer . Thou didst drink
The stale of horses and the gilded puddle
Which beasts would cough at . Thy palate then did
deign
The roughest berry on the rudest hedge .
Yea , like the stag when snow the pasture sheets ,
The barks of trees thou browsèd . On the Alps
It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh
Which some did die to look on . And all this —
It wounds thine honor that I speak it now —
Was borne so like a soldier that thy cheek
So much as lanked not .

O , Charmian ,
Where think’st thou he is now ? Stands he , or sits he ?
Or does he walk ? Or is he on his horse ?
O happy horse , to bear the weight of Antony !
Do bravely , horse , for wot’st thou whom thou
mov’st ?
The demi-Atlas of this Earth earth , the arm
And burgonet of men . He’s speaking now ,
Or murmuring Where’s my serpent of old Nile ?
For so he calls me . Now I feed myself
With most delicious poison . Think on me
That am with Phoebus’ amorous pinches black ,
And wrinkled deep in time ? Broad-fronted Caesar ,
When thou wast here above the ground , I was
A morsel for a monarch . And great Pompey
Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow ;
There would he anchor his aspect , and die
With looking on his life .

O , well-divided disposition ! — Note him ,
Note him , good Charmian , ’tis the man ! But note
him :
He was not sad , for he would shine on those
That make their looks by his ; he was not merry ,
Which seemed to tell them his remembrance lay
In Egypt with his joy ; but between both .
O , heavenly mingle ! — Be’st thou sad or merry ,
The violence of either thee becomes ,
So does it no man’s else . — Met’st thou my posts ?

By Isis , I will give thee bloody teeth
If thou with Caesar paragon again
My man of men .

My salad days ,
When I was green in judgment , cold in blood ,
To say as I said then . But come , away ,
Get me ink and paper .
He shall have every day a several greeting ,
Or I’ll unpeople Egypt .

He dreams . I know they are in Rome together ,
Looking for Antony . But all the charms of love ,
Salt Cleopatra , soften thy wanned lip !
Let witchcraft join with beauty , lust with both ;
Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts ;
Keep his brain fuming . Epicurean cooks
Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite ,
That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honor
Even till a Lethe’d dullness —



How now , Varrius ?

I shall entreat him
To answer like himself . If Caesar move him ,
Let Antony look over Caesar’s head
And speak as loud as Mars . By Jupiter ,
Were I the wearer of Antonio’s beard ,
I would not shave ’t today .

You’ve said , sir . We looked not for Mark Antony
here . Pray you , is he married to Cleopatra ?

Noble Ventidius ,
Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm ,
The fugitive Parthians follow . Spur through Media ,
Mesopotamia , and the shelters whither
The routed fly . So thy grand captain , Antony ,
Shall set thee on triumphant chariots and
Put garlands on thy head .

Sir , look well to my husband’s house , and —

Come , sir , come ,
I’ll wrestle with you in my strength of love .
Look , here I have you , thus I let you go ,
And give you to the gods .

Good Majesty ,
Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you
But when you are well pleased .

Madam , in Rome .
I looked her in the face and saw her led
Between her brother and Mark Antony .

I think so , Charmian : dull of tongue , and
dwarfish ! —
What majesty is in her gait ? Remember ,
If e’er thou looked’st on majesty .

She once being loofed ,
The noble ruin of her magic , Antony ,
Claps on his sea-wing and , like a doting mallard ,
Leaving the fight in height , flies after her .
I never saw an action of such shame .
Experience , manhood , honor ne’er before
Did violate so itself .

I have fled myself and have instructed cowards
To run and show their shoulders . Friends , begone .
I have myself resolved upon a course
Which has no need of you . Begone .
My treasure’s in the harbor ; take it . O ,
I followed that I blush to look upon !
My very hairs do mutiny , for the white
Reprove the brown for rashness , and they them
For fear and doting . Friends , begone . You shall
Have letters from me to some friends that will
Sweep your way for you . Pray you look not sad ,
Nor make replies of loathness . Take the hint
Which my despair proclaims . Let that be left
Which leaves itself . To the seaside straightway !
I will possess you of that ship and treasure .
Leave me , I pray , a little — pray you , now ,
Nay , do so — for indeed I have lost command .
Therefore I pray you — I’ll see you by and by .

O , whither hast them led me , Egypt ? See
How I convey my shame out of thine eyes ,
By looking back what I have left behind
’Stroyed in dishonor .

Tug him away . Being whipped ,
Bring him again . This jack of Caesar’s shall
Bear us an errand to him .

You were half blasted ere I knew you .
Ha !
Have I my pillow left unpressed in Rome ,
Forborne the getting of a lawful race ,
And by a gem of women , to be abused
By one that looks on feeders ?

If that thy father live , let him repent
Thou wast not made his daughter ; and be thou sorry
To follow Caesar in his triumph , since
Thou hast been whipped for following him .
Henceforth
The white hand of a lady fever thee ;
Shake thou to look on ’t . Get thee back to Caesar .
Tell him thy entertainment . Look thou say
He makes me angry with him ; for he seems
Proud and disdainful , harping on what I am ,
Not what he knew I was . He makes me angry ,
And at this time most easy ’tis to do ’t ,
When my good stars that were my former guides
Have empty left their orbs and shot their fires
Into th’ abysm of hell . If he mislike
My speech and what is done , tell him he has
Hipparchus , my enfranchèd bondman , whom
He may at pleasure whip , or hang , or torture ,
As he shall like to quit me . Urge it thou .
Hence with thy stripes , begone !

I am satisfied .
Caesar sits down in Alexandria , where
I will oppose his fate . Our force by land
Hath nobly held ; our severed navy too
Have knit again , and fleet , threatening most sealike .
Where hast thou been , my heart ? Dost thou hear ,
lady ?
If from the field I shall return once more
To kiss these lips , I will appear in blood .
I and my sword will earn our chronicle .
There’s hope in ’t yet .

Tomorrow , soldier ,
By sea and land I’ll fight . Or I will live
Or bathe my dying honor in the blood
Shall make it live again . Woo’t thou fight well ?

Tend me tonight ;
May be it is the period of your duty .
Haply you shall not see me more , or if ,
A mangled shadow . Perchance tomorrow
You’ll serve another master . I look on you
As one that takes his leave . Mine honest friends ,
I turn you not away , but , like a master
Married to your good service , stay till death .
Tend me tonight two hours — I ask no more —
And the gods yield you for ’t !

What mean you , sir ,
To give them this discomfort ? Look , they weep ,
And I , an ass , am onion-eyed . For shame ,
Transform us not to women .

Rarely , rarely .
He that unbuckles this , till we do please
To daff ’t for our repose , shall hear a storm . —
Thou fumblest , Eros , and my queen’s a squire
More tight at this than thou . Dispatch . — O love ,
That thou couldst see my wars today , and knew’st
The royal occupation , thou shouldst see
A workman in ’t .



Good morrow to thee . Welcome .
Thou look’st like him that knows a warlike charge .
To business that we love we rise betime
And go to ’t with delight .

We have beat him to his camp . Run one before
And let the Queen know of our gests .

Tomorrow
Before the sun shall see ’s , we’ll spill the blood
That has today escaped . I thank you all ,
For doughty-handed are you , and have fought
Not as you served the cause , but as ’t had been
Each man’s like mine . You have shown all Hectors .
Enter the city . Clip your wives , your friends .
Tell them your feats , whilst they with joyful tears
Wash the congealment from your wounds and kiss
The honored gashes whole .



Give me thy hand .
To this great fairy I’ll commend thy acts ,
Make her thanks bless thee . — O , thou day o’ th’
world ,
Chain mine armed neck . Leap thou , attire and all ,
Through proof of harness to my heart , and there
Ride on the pants triumphing .

I would they’d fight i’ th’ fire or i’ th’ air ;
We’d fight there too . But this it is : our foot
Upon the hills adjoining to the city
Shall stay with us — order for sea is given ;
They have put forth the haven —
Where their appointment we may best discover
And look on their endeavor .

Swallows have built
In Cleopatra’s sails their nests . The augurs
Say they know not , they cannot tell , look grimly
And dare not speak their knowledge . Antony
Is valiant and dejected , and by starts
His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear
Of what he has and has not .

All is lost !
This foul Egyptian hath betrayèd me .
My fleet hath yielded to the foe , and yonder
They cast their caps up and carouse together
Like friends long lost . Triple-turned whore ! ’Tis thou
Hast sold me to this novice , and my heart
Makes only wars on thee . Bid them all fly —
For when I am revenged upon my charm ,
I have done all . Bid them all fly . Begone !

O sun , thy uprise shall I see no more .
Fortune and Antony part here ; even here
Do we shake hands . All come to this ? The hearts
That spanieled me at heels , to whom I gave
Their wishes , do discandy , melt their sweets
On blossoming Caesar , and this pine is barked
That overtopped them all . Betrayed I am .
O , this false soul of Egypt ! This grave charm ,
Whose eye becked forth my wars and called them
home ,
Whose bosom was my crownet , my chief end ,
Like a right gypsy hath at fast and loose
Beguiled me to the very heart of loss . —
What Eros , Eros !



Ah , thou spell ! Avaunt !

My dear master ,
My captain , and my emperor , let me say ,
Before I strike this bloody stroke , farewell .

His death’s upon him , but not dead .
Look out o’ th’ other side your monument .
His guard have brought him thither .

No more but e’en a woman , and commanded
By such poor passion as the maid that milks
And does the meanest chares . It were for me
To throw my scepter at the injurious gods ,
To tell them that this world did equal theirs
Till they had stolen our jewel . All’s but naught .
Patience is sottish , and impatience does
Become a dog that’s mad . Then is it sin
To rush into the secret house of death
Ere death dare come to us ? How do you , women ?
What , what , good cheer ! Why , how now , Charmian ?
My noble girls ! Ah , women , women ! Look ,
Our lamp is spent ; it’s out . Good sirs , take heart .
We’ll bury him ; and then , what’s brave , what’s
noble ,
Let’s do ’t after the high Roman fashion
And make death proud to take us . Come , away .
This case of that huge spirit now is cold .
Ah women , women ! Come , we have no friend
But resolution and the briefest end .

He is dead , Caesar ,
Not by a public minister of justice ,
Nor by a hirèd knife , but that self hand
Which writ his honor in the acts it did
Hath , with the courage which the heart did lend it ,
Splitted the heart . This is his sword .
I robbed his wound of it . Behold it stained
With his most noble blood .

Look you sad , friends ?
The gods rebuke me , but it is tidings
To wash the eyes of kings .

O Antony ,
I have followed thee to this , but we do lance
Diseases in our bodies . I must perforce
Have shown to thee such a declining day
Or look on thine . We could not stall together
In the whole world . But yet let me lament
With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts
That thou my brother , my competitor
In top of all design , my mate in empire ,
Friend and companion in the front of war ,
The arm of mine own body , and the heart
Where mine his thoughts did kindle — that our stars
Unreconciliable should divide
Our equalness to this . Hear me , good friends —



But I will tell you at some meeter season .
The business of this man looks out of him .
We’ll hear him what he says . — Whence are you ?

Pray you tell him
I am his fortune’s vassal and I send him
The greatness he has got . I hourly learn
A doctrine of obedience , and would gladly
Look him i’ th’ face .

You must think this , look you , that the
worm will do his kind .

Look you , the worm is not to be trusted
but in the keeping of wise people , for indeed there
is no goodness in the worm .

O , noble weakness !
If they had swallowed poison , ’twould appear
By external swelling ; but she looks like sleep ,
As she would catch another Antony
In her strong toil of grace .

Here on her breast
There is a vent of blood , and something blown .
The like is on her arm .

Ay , better than him I am before knows me . I
know you are my eldest brother , and in the gentle
condition of blood you should so know me . The
courtesy of nations allows you my better , in that you
are the first-born , but the same tradition takes not
away my blood , were there twenty brothers betwixt
us . I have as much of my father in me as you , albeit I
confess your coming before me is nearer to his
reverence .

Charles , I thank thee for thy love to me , which
thou shalt find I will most kindly requite . I had
myself notice of my brother’s purpose herein , and
have by underhand means labored to dissuade him
from it ; but he is resolute . I’ll tell thee , Charles , it is
the stubbornest young fellow of France , full of
ambition , an envious emulator of every man’s good
parts , a secret and villainous contriver against me
his natural brother . Therefore use thy discretion . I
had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger .
And thou wert best look to ’t , for if thou dost him
any slight disgrace , or if he do not mightily grace
himself on thee , he will practice against thee by
poison , entrap thee by some treacherous device ,
and never leave thee till he hath ta’en thy life by
some indirect means or other . For I assure thee —
and almost with tears I speak it — there is not one so
young and so villainous this day living . I speak but
brotherly of him , but should I anatomize him to
thee as he is , I must blush and weep , and thou must
look pale and wonder .

Alas , he is too young . Yet he looks successfully .

Let me love him for that , and do you love
him because I do .



Look , here comes the Duke .

I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page ,
And therefore look you call me Ganymede .
But what will you be called ?

O yes , into a thousand similes .
First , for his weeping into the needless stream :
Poor deer , quoth he , thou mak’st a testament
As worldlings do , giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much . Then , being there
alone ,
Left and abandoned of his velvet friends :
’Tis right , quoth he . Thus misery doth part
The flux of company . Anon a careless herd ,
Full of the pasture , jumps along by him
And never stays to greet him . Ay , quoth Jaques ,
Sweep on , you fat and greasy citizens .
’Tis just the fashion . Wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ?
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of country , city , court ,
Yea , and of this our life , swearing that we
Are mere usurpers , tyrants , and what’s worse ,
To fright the animals and to kill them up
In their assigned and native dwelling place .

What , wouldst thou have me go and beg my food ,
Or with a base and boist’rous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road ?
This I must do , or know not what to do ;
Yet this I will not do , do how I can .
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood and bloody brother .

But do not so . I have five hundred crowns ,
The thrifty hire I saved under your father ,
Which I did store to be my foster nurse
When service should in my old limbs lie lame ,
And unregarded age in corners thrown .
Take that , and He that doth the ravens feed ,
Yea , providently caters for the sparrow ,
Be comfort to my age . Here is the gold .
All this I give you . Let me be your servant .
Though I look old , yet I am strong and lusty ,
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ,
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility .
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter ,
Frosty but kindly . Let me go with you .
I’ll do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities .

Ay , be so , good Touchstone .



Look you who comes here , a young man and an old
in solemn talk .

Well , I’ll end the song . — Sirs , cover the while ;
the Duke will drink under this tree . — He hath been
all this day to look you .

Why , how now , Adam ? No greater heart in
thee ? Live a little , comfort a little , cheer thyself a
little . If this uncouth forest yield anything savage , I
will either be food for it or bring it for food to thee .
Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers . For my
sake , be comfortable . Hold death awhile at the
arm’s end . I will here be with thee presently , and if
I bring thee not something to eat , I will give thee
leave to die . But if thou diest before I come , thou art
a mocker of my labor . Well said . Thou look’st
cheerly , and I’ll be with thee quickly . Yet thou liest
in the bleak air . Come , I will bear thee to some
shelter , and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner if
there live anything in this desert . Cheerly , good
Adam .

Why , how now , monsieur ? What a life is this
That your poor friends must woo your company ?
What , you look merrily .

A fool , a fool , I met a fool i’ th’ forest ,
A motley fool . A miserable world !
As I do live by food , I met a fool ,
Who laid him down and basked him in the sun
And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms ,
In good set terms , and yet a motley fool .
Good morrow , fool , quoth I . No , sir , quoth he ,
Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me
fortune .
And then he drew a dial from his poke
And , looking on it with lack-luster eye ,
Says very wisely It is ten o’clock .
Thus we may see , quoth he , how the world wags .
’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine ,
And after one hour more ’twill be eleven .
And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe ,
And then from hour to hour we rot and rot ,
And thereby hangs a tale . When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time ,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer
That fools should be so deep-contemplative ,
And I did laugh sans intermission
An hour by his dial . O noble fool !
A worthy fool ! Motley’s the only wear .

Speak you so gently ? Pardon me , I pray you .
I thought that all things had been savage here ,
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stern commandment . But whate’er you are
That in this desert inaccessible ,
Under the shade of melancholy boughs ,
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ,
If ever you have looked on better days ,
If ever been where bells have knolled to church ,
If ever sat at any good man’s feast ,
If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear
And know what ’tis to pity and be pitied ,
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be ,
In the which hope I blush and hide my sword .

All the world’s a stage ,
And all the men and women merely players .
They have their exits and their entrances ,
And one man in his time plays many parts ,
His acts being seven ages . At first the infant ,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms .
Then the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face , creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school . And then the lover ,
Sighing like furnace , with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow . Then a soldier ,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard ,
Jealous in honor , sudden and quick in quarrel ,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth . And then the justice ,
In fair round belly with good capon lined ,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut ,
Full of wise saws and modern instances ;
And so he plays his part . The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side ,
His youthful hose , well saved , a world too wide
For his shrunk shank , and his big manly voice ,
Turning again toward childish treble , pipes
And whistles in his sound . Last scene of all ,
That ends this strange eventful history ,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion ,
Sans teeth , sans eyes , sans taste , sans everything .

Not see him since ? Sir , sir , that cannot be .
But were I not the better part made mercy ,
I should not seek an absent argument
Of my revenge , thou present . But look to it :
Find out thy brother wheresoe’er he is .
Seek him with candle . Bring him , dead or living ,
Within this twelvemonth , or turn thou no more
To seek a living in our territory .
Thy lands and all things that thou dost call thine ,
Worth seizure , do we seize into our hands
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth
Of what we think against thee .

Hang there , my verse , in witness of my love .
And thou , thrice-crownèd queen of night , survey
With thy chaste eye , from thy pale sphere above ,
Thy huntress’ name that my full life doth sway .
O Rosalind , these trees shall be my books ,
And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character ,
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witnessed everywhere .
Run , run , Orlando , carve on every tree
The fair , the chaste , and unexpressive she .

Truly , shepherd , in respect of itself , it is a
good life ; but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life , it
is naught . In respect that it is solitary , I like it very
well ; but in respect that it is private , it is a very vile
life . Now in respect it is in the fields , it pleaseth me
well ; but in respect it is not in the court , it is
tedious . As it is a spare life , look you , it fits my
humor well ; but as there is no more plenty in it , it
goes much against my stomach . Hast any philosophy
in thee , shepherd ?

I was seven of the nine days out of the
wonder before you came , for look here what I
found on a palm tree . I was never so berhymed since Pythagoras’
time that I was an Irish rat , which I can hardly
remember .

Alas the day , what shall I do with my doublet
and hose ? What did he when thou saw’st him ? What
said he ? How looked he ? Wherein went he ? What
makes he here ? Did he ask for me ? Where remains
he ? How parted he with thee ? And when shalt thou
see him again ? Answer me in one word .

But doth he know that I am in this forest and
in man’s apparel ? Looks he as freshly as he did the
day he wrestled ?

He is drowned in the brook . Look but in , and
you shall see him .

Sweet Phoebe , do not scorn me . Do not , Phoebe .
Say that you love me not , but say not so
In bitterness . The common executioner ,
Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes
hard ,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck
But first begs pardon . Will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops ?

And why , I pray you ? Who might be your mother ,
That you insult , exult , and all at once ,
Over the wretched ? What though you have no
beauty —
As , by my faith , I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed —
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ?
Why , what means this ? Why do you look on me ?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature’s sale-work . — ’Od’s my little life ,
I think she means to tangle my eyes , too . —
No , faith , proud mistress , hope not after it .
’Tis not your inky brows , your black silk hair ,
Your bugle eyeballs , nor your cheek of cream
That can entame my spirits to your worship . —
You foolish shepherd , wherefore do you follow her ,
Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain ?
You are a thousand times a properer man
Than she a woman . ’Tis such fools as you
That makes the world full of ill-favored children .
’Tis not her glass but you that flatters her ,
And out of you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show her . —
But , mistress , know yourself . Down on your knees
And thank heaven , fasting , for a good man’s love ,
For I must tell you friendly in your ear ,
Sell when you can ; you are not for all markets .
Cry the man mercy , love him , take his offer .
Foul is most foul , being foul to be a scoffer . —
So take her to thee , shepherd . Fare you well .

He’s fall’n in love with your
foulness . And she’ll fall in love with
my anger . If it be so , as fast as she answers thee with
frowning looks , I’ll sauce her with bitter words . Why look you so upon me ?

I pray you , do not fall in love with me ,
For I am falser than vows made in wine .
Besides , I like you not . If you will know my house ,
’Tis at the tuft of olives , here hard by . —
Will you go , sister ? — Shepherd , ply her hard . —
Come , sister . — Shepherdess , look on him better ,
And be not proud . Though all the world could see ,
None could be so abused in sight as he . —
Come , to our flock .

Why , that were covetousness .
Silvius , the time was that I hated thee ;
And yet it is not that I bear thee love ; ,
But since that thou canst talk of love so well ,
Thy company , which erst was irksome to me ,
I will endure , and I’ll employ thee too .
But do not look for further recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art employed .

So holy and so perfect is my love ,
And I in such a poverty of grace ,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harvest reaps . Loose now and then
A scattered smile , and that I’ll live upon .

Farewell , Monsieur Traveller .
Look you lisp and wear strange suits , disable all
the benefits of your own country , be out of love with
your nativity , and almost chide God for making you
that countenance you are , or I will scarce think you
have swam in a gondola .

Why , how now , Orlando , where have you been all
this while ? You a lover ? An you serve me such
another trick , never come in my sight more .

I warrant you , with pure love and troubled brain
he hath ta’en his bow and arrows and is gone forth
to sleep .


Look who comes here .

Orlando doth commend him to you both ,
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind
He sends this bloody napkin . Are you he ?

But for the bloody napkin ?

By and by .
When from the first to last betwixt us two
Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed —
As how I came into that desert place —
In brief , he led me to the gentle duke ,
Who gave me fresh array and entertainment ,
Committing me unto my brother’s love ;
Who led me instantly unto his cave ,
There stripped himself , and here upon his arm
The lioness had torn some flesh away ,
Which all this while had bled ; and now he fainted ,
And cried in fainting upon Rosalind .
Brief , I recovered him , bound up his wound ,
And after some small space , being strong at heart ,
He sent me hither , stranger as I am ,
To tell this story , that you might excuse
His broken promise , and to give this napkin
Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth
That he in sport doth call his Rosalind .

Many will swoon when they do look on blood .

Look , he recovers .

Come , you look paler and paler . Pray
you draw homewards . — Good sir , go with us .

You have my consent . Let your wedding be
tomorrow . Thither will I invite the Duke and all ’s
contented followers . Go you and prepare Aliena ,
for , look you , here comes my Rosalind .

O , I know where you are .
Nay , ’tis true . There was never anything so sudden
but the fight of two rams , and Caesar’s thrasonical
brag of I came , saw , and overcame . For your
brother and my sister no sooner met but they
looked , no sooner looked but they loved , no sooner
loved but they sighed , no sooner sighed but they
asked one another the reason , no sooner knew the
reason but they sought the remedy ; and in these
degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage ,
which they will climb incontinent , or else be incontinent
before marriage . They are in the very wrath
of love , and they will together . Clubs cannot part
them .

They shall be married tomorrow , and I will
bid the Duke to the nuptial . But O , how bitter a
thing it is to look into happiness through another
man’s eyes . By so much the more shall I tomorrow
be at the height of heart-heaviness by how much I
shall think my brother happy in having what he
wishes for .

By my life I do , which I
tender dearly , though I say I am a magician . Therefore
put you in your best array , bid your friends ; for
if you will be married tomorrow , you shall , and to
Rosalind , if you will .



Look , here comes a lover of mine and a lover of
hers .

I care not if I have . It is my study
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you .
You are there followed by a faithful shepherd .
Look upon him , love him ; he worships you .

There is sure another flood toward , and these
couples are coming to the ark . Here comes a pair of
very strange beasts , which in all tongues are called
fools .

God ’ild you , sir . I desire you of the like . I
press in here , sir , amongst the rest of the country
copulatives , to swear and to forswear , according as
marriage binds and blood breaks . A poor virgin , sir ,
an ill-favored thing , sir , but mine own . A poor
humor of mine , sir , to take that that no man else
will . Rich honesty dwells like a miser , sir , in a poor
house , as your pearl in your foul oyster .

I would my father looked but with my eyes .

Rather your eyes must with his judgment look .

Either to die the death , or to abjure
Forever the society of men .
Therefore , fair Hermia , question your desires ,
Know of your youth , examine well your blood ,
Whether ( if you yield not to your father’s choice )
You can endure the livery of a nun ,
For aye to be in shady cloister mewed ,
To live a barren sister all your life ,
Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon .
Thrice-blessèd they that master so their blood
To undergo such maiden pilgrimage ,
But earthlier happy is the rose distilled
Than that which , withering on the virgin thorn ,
Grows , lives , and dies in single blessedness .

I must confess that I have heard so much ,
And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof ;
But , being overfull of self-affairs ,
My mind did lose it . — But , Demetrius , come ,
And come , Egeus ; you shall go with me .
I have some private schooling for you both . —
For you , fair Hermia , look you arm yourself
To fit your fancies to your father’s will ,
Or else the law of Athens yields you up
( Which by no means we may extenuate )
To death or to a vow of single life . —
Come , my Hippolyta . What cheer , my love ? —
Demetrius and Egeus , go along .
I must employ you in some business
Against our nuptial , and confer with you
Of something nearly that concerns yourselves .

Ay me ! For aught that I could ever read ,
Could ever hear by tale or history ,
The course of true love never did run smooth .
But either it was different in blood —

Keep promise , love . Look , here comes Helena .

Call you me fair ? That fair again unsay .
Demetrius loves your fair . O happy fair !
Your eyes are lodestars and your tongue’s sweet air
More tunable than lark to shepherd’s ear
When wheat is green , when hawthorn buds appear .
Sickness is catching . O , were favor so !
Yours would I catch , fair Hermia , ere I go .
My ear should catch your voice , my eye your eye ;
My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet
melody .
Were the world mine , Demetrius being bated ,
The rest I’d give to be to you translated .
O , teach me how you look and with what art
You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart !

How happy some o’er other some can be !
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she .
But what of that ? Demetrius thinks not so .
He will not know what all but he do know .
And , as he errs , doting on Hermia’s eyes ,
So I , admiring of his qualities .
Things base and vile , holding no quantity ,
Love can transpose to form and dignity .
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind ;
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind .
Nor hath Love’s mind of any judgment taste .
Wings , and no eyes , figure unheedy haste .
And therefore is Love said to be a child
Because in choice he is so oft beguiled .
As waggish boys in game themselves forswear ,
So the boy Love is perjured everywhere .
For , ere Demetrius looked on Hermia’s eyne ,
He hailed down oaths that he was only mine ;
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt ,
So he dissolved , and show’rs of oaths did melt .
I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight .
Then to the wood will he tomorrow night
Pursue her . And , for this intelligence
If I have thanks , it is a dear expense .
But herein mean I to enrich my pain ,
To have his sight thither and back again .

That will ask some tears in the true performing
of it . If I do it , let the audience look to their
eyes . I will move storms ; I will condole in some
measure . To the rest . — Yet my chief humor is for a
tyrant . I could play Ercles rarely , or a part to tear a
cat in , to make all split :

The raging rocks
And shivering shocks
Shall break the locks
Of prison gates .
And Phibbus’ car
Shall shine from far
And make and mar
The foolish Fates .

This was lofty . Now name the rest of the players .
This is Ercles’ vein , a tyrant’s vein . A lover is more
condoling .

Over hill , over dale ,
Thorough bush , thorough brier ,
Over park , over pale ,
Thorough flood , thorough fire ;
I do wander everywhere ,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere .
And I serve the Fairy Queen ,
To dew her orbs upon the green .
The cowslips tall her pensioners be ;
In their gold coats spots you see ;
Those be rubies , fairy favors ;
In those freckles live their savors .
I must go seek some dewdrops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear .
Farewell , thou lob of spirits . I’ll be gone .
Our queen and all her elves come here anon .

These are the forgeries of jealousy ;
And never , since the middle summer’s spring ,
Met we on hill , in dale , forest , or mead ,
By pavèd fountain or by rushy brook ,
Or in the beachèd margent of the sea ,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind ,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport .
Therefore the winds , piping to us in vain ,
As in revenge have sucked up from the sea
Contagious fogs , which , falling in the land ,
Hath every pelting river made so proud
That they have overborne their continents .
The ox hath therefore stretched his yoke in vain ,
The plowman lost his sweat , and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attained a beard .
The fold stands empty in the drownèd field ,
And crows are fatted with the murrain flock .
The nine-men’s-morris is filled up with mud ,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green ,
For lack of tread , are undistinguishable .
The human mortals want their winter here .
No night is now with hymn or carol blessed .
Therefore the moon , the governess of floods ,
Pale in her anger , washes all the air ,
That rheumatic diseases do abound .
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter : hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose ,
And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is , as in mockery , set . The spring , the summer ,
The childing autumn , angry winter , change
Their wonted liveries , and the mazèd world
By their increase now knows not which is which .
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate , from our dissension ;
We are their parents and original .

Set your heart at rest :
The Fairyland buys not the child of me .
His mother was a vot’ress of my order ,
And in the spicèd Indian air by night
Full often hath she gossiped by my side
And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands ,
Marking th’ embarkèd traders on the flood ,
When we have laughed to see the sails conceive
And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind ;
Which she , with pretty and with swimming gait ,
Following ( her womb then rich with my young
squire ) ,
Would imitate and sail upon the land
To fetch me trifles and return again ,
As from a voyage , rich with merchandise .
But she , being mortal , of that boy did die ,
And for her sake do I rear up her boy ,
And for her sake I will not part with him .

That very time I saw ( but thou couldst not ) ,
Flying between the cold moon and the Earth earth ,
Cupid all armed . A certain aim he took
At a fair vestal thronèd by the west ,
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts .
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft
Quenched in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon ,
And the imperial vot’ress passèd on
In maiden meditation , fancy-free .
Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell .
It fell upon a little western flower ,
Before , milk-white , now purple with love’s wound ,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness .
Fetch me that flower ; the herb I showed thee once .
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees .
Fetch me this herb , and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league .

Having once this juice ,
I’ll watch Titania when she is asleep
And drop the liquor of it in her eyes .
The next thing then she , waking , looks upon
( Be it on lion , bear , or wolf , or bull ,
On meddling monkey , or on busy ape )
She shall pursue it with the soul of love .
And ere I take this charm from off her sight
( As I can take it with another herb ) ,
I’ll make her render up her page to me .
But who comes here ? I am invisible ,
And I will overhear their conference .

Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit ,
For I am sick when I do look on thee .

And I am sick when I look not on you .

Your virtue is my privilege . For that
It is not night when I do see your face ,
Therefore I think I am not in the night .
Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company ,
For you , in my respect , are all the world .
Then , how can it be said I am alone
When all the world is here to look on me ?

I pray thee give it me .

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows ,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows ,
Quite overcanopied with luscious woodbine ,
With sweet muskroses , and with eglantine .
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night ,
Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight .
And there the snake throws her enameled skin ,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in .
And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes
And make her full of hateful fantasies .
Take thou some of it , and seek through this grove .

A sweet Athenian lady is in love
With a disdainful youth . Anoint his eyes ,
But do it when the next thing he espies
May be the lady . Thou shalt know the man
By the Athenian garments he hath on .
Effect it with some care , that he may prove
More fond on her than she upon her love .
And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow .

Hence , away ! Now all is well .
One aloof stand sentinel .

O , I am out of breath in this fond chase .
The more my prayer , the lesser is my grace .
Happy is Hermia , wheresoe’er she lies ,
For she hath blessèd and attractive eyes .
How came her eyes so bright ? Not with salt tears .
If so , my eyes are oftener washed than hers .
No , no , I am as ugly as a bear ,
For beasts that meet me run away for fear .
Therefore no marvel though Demetrius
Do as a monster fly my presence thus .
What wicked and dissembling glass of mine
Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne ?
But who is here ? Lysander , on the ground !
Dead or asleep ? I see no blood , no wound . —
Lysander , if you live , good sir , awake .

Content with Hermia ? No , I do repent
The tedious minutes I with her have spent .
Not Hermia , but Helena I love .
Who will not change a raven for a dove ?
The will of man is by his reason swayed ,
And reason says you are the worthier maid .
Things growing are not ripe until their season ;
So I , being young , till now ripe not to reason .
And touching now the point of human skill ,
Reason becomes the marshal to my will
And leads me to your eyes , where I o’erlook
Love’s stories written in love’s richest book .

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born ?
When at your hands did I deserve this scorn ?
Is ’t not enough , is ’t not enough , young man ,
That I did never , no , nor never can
Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye ,
But you must flout my insufficiency ?
Good troth , you do me wrong , good sooth , you do ,
In such disdainful manner me to woo .
But fare you well . Perforce I must confess
I thought you lord of more true gentleness .
O , that a lady of one man refused
Should of another therefore be abused !

Help me , Lysander , help me ! Do thy best
To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast .
Ay me , for pity ! What a dream was here !
Lysander , look how I do quake with fear .
Methought a serpent ate my heart away ,
And you sat smiling at his cruel prey .
Lysander ! What , removed ? Lysander , lord !
What , out of hearing ? Gone ? No sound , no word ?
Alack , where are you ? Speak , an if you hear .
Speak , of all loves ! I swoon almost with fear . —
No ? Then I well perceive you are not nigh .
Either death or you I’ll find immediately .

Masters , you ought to consider with yourself ,
to bring in ( God shield us ! ) a lion among ladies is a
most dreadful thing . For there is not a more fearful
wildfowl than your lion living , and we ought to look
to ’t .

A calendar , a calendar ! Look in the almanac .
Find out moonshine , find out moonshine .

Come , wait upon him . Lead him to my bower .
The moon , methinks , looks with a wat’ry eye ,
And when she weeps , weeps every little flower ,
Lamenting some enforcèd chastity .
Tie up my lover’s tongue . Bring him silently .

Now I but chide , but I should use thee worse ,
For thou , I fear , hast given me cause to curse .
If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep ,
Being o’er shoes in blood , plunge in the deep
And kill me too .
The sun was not so true unto the day
As he to me . Would he have stolen away
From sleeping Hermia ? I’ll believe as soon
This whole Earth earth may be bored , and that the moon
May through the center creep and so displease
Her brother’s noontide with th’ Antipodes .
It cannot be but thou hast murdered him .
So should a murderer look , so dead , so grim .

So should the murdered look , and so should I ,
Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty .
Yet you , the murderer , look as bright , as clear ,
As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere .

Out , dog ! Out , cur ! Thou driv’st me past the bounds
Of maiden’s patience . Hast thou slain him , then ?
Henceforth be never numbered among men .
O , once tell true ! Tell true , even for my sake !
Durst thou have looked upon him , being awake ?
And hast thou killed him sleeping ? O brave touch !
Could not a worm , an adder , do so much ?
An adder did it , for with doubler tongue
Than thine , thou serpent , never adder stung .

You spend your passion on a misprised mood .
I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood ,
Nor is he dead , for aught that I can tell .

About the wood go swifter than the wind ,
And Helena of Athens look thou find .
All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer
With sighs of love that costs the fresh blood dear .
By some illusion see thou bring her here .
I’ll charm his eyes against she do appear .

I go , I go , look how I go ,
Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow .

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn ?
Scorn and derision never come in tears .
Look when I vow , I weep ; and vows so born ,
In their nativity all truth appears .
How can these things in me seem scorn to you ,
Bearing the badge of faith to prove them true ?

Disparage not the faith thou dost not know ,
Lest to thy peril thou aby it dear .
Look where thy love comes . Yonder is thy dear .

Ay , do . Persever , counterfeit sad looks ,
Make mouths upon me when I turn my back ,
Wink each at other , hold the sweet jest up .
This sport , well carried , shall be chronicled .
If you have any pity , grace , or manners ,
You would not make me such an argument .
But fare you well . ’Tis partly my own fault ,
Which death or absence soon shall remedy .

No , no . He’ll
Seem to break loose . Take on as you
would follow ,
But yet come not . You are a tame man , go !

Hang off , thou cat , thou burr ! Vile thing , let loose ,
Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent .

Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight .
Hie , therefore , Robin , overcast the night ;
The starry welkin cover thou anon
With drooping fog as black as Acheron ,
And lead these testy rivals so astray
As one come not within another’s way .
Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue ;
Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong .
And sometime rail thou like Demetrius .
And from each other look thou lead them thus ,
Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep
With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep .
Then crush this herb into Lysander’s eye ,

Whose liquor hath this virtuous property ,
To take from thence all error with his might
And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight .
When they next wake , all this derision
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision .
And back to Athens shall the lovers wend ,
With league whose date till death shall never end .
Whiles I in this affair do thee employ ,
I’ll to my queen and beg her Indian boy ;
And then I will her charmèd eye release
From monster’s view , and all things shall be peace .

My fairy lord , this must be done with haste ,
For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast ,
And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger ,
At whose approach , ghosts wand’ring here and
there
Troop home to churchyards . Damnèd spirits all ,
That in crossways and floods have burial ,
Already to their wormy beds are gone .
For fear lest day should look their shames upon ,
They willfully themselves exile from light
And must for aye consort with black-browed night .

Thou coward , art thou bragging to the stars ,
Telling the bushes that thou look’st for wars ,
And wilt not come ? Come , recreant ! Come , thou
child !
I’ll whip thee with a rod . He is defiled
That draws a sword on thee .

Abide me , if thou dar’st , for well I wot
Thou runn’st before me , shifting every place ,
And dar’st not stand nor look me in the face .
Where art thou now ?

Nay , then , thou mock’st me . Thou shalt buy this
dear
If ever I thy face by daylight see .
Now go thy way . Faintness constraineth me
To measure out my length on this cold bed .
By day’s approach look to be visited .

Not a word of me . All that I will tell you is that
the Duke hath dined . Get your apparel together ,
good strings to your beards , new ribbons to your
pumps . Meet presently at the palace . Every man
look o’er his part . For the short and the long is , our
play is preferred . In any case , let Thisbe have clean
linen , and let not him that plays the lion pare his
nails , for they shall hang out for the lion’s claws .
And , most dear actors , eat no onions nor garlic , for
we are to utter sweet breath , and I do not doubt but
to hear them say it is a sweet comedy . No more
words . Away ! Go , away !

The kinder we , to give them thanks for nothing .
Our sport shall be to take what they mistake ;
And what poor duty cannot do , noble respect
Takes it in might , not merit .
Where I have come , great clerks have purposèd
To greet me with premeditated welcomes ,
Where I have seen them shiver and look pale ,
Make periods in the midst of sentences ,
Throttle their practiced accent in their fears ,
And in conclusion dumbly have broke off ,
Not paying me a welcome . Trust me , sweet ,
Out of this silence yet I picked a welcome ,
And in the modesty of fearful duty ,
I read as much as from the rattling tongue
Of saucy and audacious eloquence .
Love , therefore , and tongue-tied simplicity
In least speak most , to my capacity .

Gentles , perchance you wonder at this show .
But wonder on , till truth make all things plain .
This man is Pyramus , if you would know .
This beauteous lady Thisbe is certain .
This man with lime and roughcast doth present
Wall , that vile wall which did these lovers
sunder ;
And through Wall’s chink , poor souls , they are
content
To whisper , at the which let no man wonder .
This man , with lantern , dog , and bush of thorn ,
Presenteth Moonshine , for , if you will know ,
By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn
To meet at Ninus’ tomb , there , there to woo .
This grisly beast ( which Lion hight by name )
The trusty Thisbe coming first by night
Did scare away , or rather did affright ;
And , as she fled , her mantle she did fall ,
Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain .
Anon comes Pyramus , sweet youth and tall ,
And finds his trusty Thisbe’s mantle slain .
Whereat , with blade , with bloody blameful blade ,
He bravely broached his boiling bloody breast .
And Thisbe , tarrying in mulberry shade ,
His dagger drew , and died . For all the rest ,
Let Lion , Moonshine , Wall , and lovers twain
At large discourse , while here they do remain .

O grim-looked night ! O night with hue so black !
O night , which ever art when day is not !
O night ! O night ! Alack , alack , alack !
I fear my Thisbe’s promise is forgot .
And thou , O wall , O sweet , O lovely wall ,
That stand’st between her father’s ground and
mine ,
Thou wall , O wall , O sweet and lovely wall ,
Show me thy chink to blink through with mine
eyne .
Thanks , courteous wall . Jove shield thee well for
this .
But what see I ? No Thisbe do I see .
O wicked wall , through whom I see no bliss ,
Cursed be thy stones for thus deceiving me !

You ladies , you whose gentle hearts do fear
The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on
floor ,
May now perchance both quake and tremble here ,
When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar .
Then know that I , as Snug the joiner , am
A lion fell , nor else no lion’s dam ;
For if I should as lion come in strife
Into this place , ’twere pity on my life .

Sweet Moon , I thank thee for thy sunny beams .
I thank thee , Moon , for shining now so bright ,
For by thy gracious , golden , glittering gleams ,
I trust to take of truest Thisbe sight . —
But stay ! O spite !
But mark , poor knight ,
What dreadful dole is here !
Eyes , do you see !
How can it be !
O dainty duck ! O dear !
Thy mantle good —
What , stained with blood ?
Approach , ye Furies fell !
O Fates , come , come ,
Cut thread and thrum ,
Quail , crush , conclude , and quell !

This passion , and the death of a dear friend ,
would go near to make a man look sad .

O , wherefore , Nature , didst thou lions frame ,
Since lion vile hath here deflowered my dear ,
Which is — no , no — which was the fairest dame
That lived , that loved , that liked , that looked with
cheer ?
Come , tears , confound !
Out , sword , and wound
The pap of Pyramus ;
Ay , that left pap ,
Where heart doth hop .
Thus die I , thus , thus , thus .
Now am I dead ;
Now am I fled ;
My soul is in the sky .
Tongue , lose thy light !
Moon , take thy flight !
Now die , die , die , die , die .

Sir , I shall tell you . With a kind of smile ,
Which ne’er came from the lungs , but even thus —
For , look you , I may make the belly smile
As well as speak — it tauntingly replied
To th’ discontented members , the mutinous parts
That envied his receipt ; even so most fitly
As you malign our senators for that
They are not such as you .

Note me this , good friend ;
Your most grave belly was deliberate ,
Not rash like his accusers , and thus answered :
True is it , my incorporate friends , quoth he ,
That I receive the general food at first
Which you do live upon ; and fit it is ,
Because I am the storehouse and the shop
Of the whole body . But , if you do remember ,
I send it through the rivers of your blood
Even to the court , the heart , to th’ seat o’ th’ brain ;
And , through the cranks and offices of man ,
The strongest nerves and small inferior veins
From me receive that natural competency
Whereby they live . And though that all at once ,
You , my good friends — this says the belly , mark
me —

For that , being one o’ th’ lowest , basest , poorest ,
Of this most wise rebellion , thou goest foremost .
Thou rascal , that art worst in blood to run ,
Lead’st first to win some vantage .
But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs .
Rome and her rats are at the point of battle ;
The one side must have bale .



Hail , noble Martius .

They are dissolved . Hang
’em !
They said they were an-hungry , sighed forth
proverbs
That hunger broke stone walls , that dogs must eat ,
That meat was made for mouths , that the gods sent
not
Corn for the rich men only . With these shreds
They vented their complainings , which being
answered
And a petition granted them — a strange one ,
To break the heart of generosity
And make bold power look pale — they threw their
caps
As they would hang them on the horns o’ th’ moon ,
Shouting their emulation .

Indeed you shall not .
Methinks I hear hither your husband’s drum ,
See him pluck Aufidius down by th’ hair ;
As children from a bear , the Volsces shunning him .
Methinks I see him stamp thus and call thus :
Come on , you cowards ! You were got in fear ,
Though you were born in Rome . His bloody brow
With his mailed hand then wiping , forth he goes
Like to a harvestman that’s tasked to mow
Or all or lose his hire .

His bloody brow ? O Jupiter , no blood !

Away , you fool ! It more becomes a man
Than gilt his trophy . The breasts of Hecuba ,
When she did suckle Hector , looked not lovelier
Than Hector’s forehead when it spit forth blood
At Grecian sword , contemning . — Tell Valeria
We are fit to bid her welcome .

He had rather see the swords and hear a
drum than look upon his schoolmaster .

O’ my word , the father’s son ! I’ll swear ’tis a
very pretty boy . O’ my troth , I looked upon him o’
Wednesday half an hour together . H’as such a confirmed
countenance . I saw him run after a gilded
butterfly , and when he caught it , he let it go again ,
and after it again , and over and over he comes ,
and up again , catched it again . Or whether his fall
enraged him or how ’twas , he did so set his teeth
and tear it . O , I warrant how he mammocked it !

All the contagion of the south light on you ,
You shames of Rome ! You herd of — Boils and
plagues
Plaster you o’er , that you may be abhorred
Farther than seen , and one infect another
Against the wind a mile ! You souls of geese ,
That bear the shapes of men , how have you run
From slaves that apes would beat ! Pluto and hell !
All hurt behind . Backs red , and faces pale
With flight and agued fear ! Mend , and charge home ,
Or , by the fires of heaven , I’ll leave the foe
And make my wars on you . Look to ’t . Come on !
If you’ll stand fast , we’ll beat them to their wives ,
As they us to our trenches . Follow ’s !



So , now the gates are ope . Now prove good
seconds !
’Tis for the followers fortune widens them ,
Not for the fliers . Mark me , and do the like .

O , noble fellow ,
Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword ,
And when it bows , stand’st up ! Thou art left ,
Martius .
A carbuncle entire , as big as thou art ,
Were not so rich a jewel . Thou wast a soldier
Even to Cato’s wish , not fierce and terrible
Only in strokes , but with thy grim looks and
The thunderlike percussion of thy sounds
Thou mad’st thine enemies shake , as if the world
Were feverous and did tremble .

Look , sir .

Sir , praise me not .
My work hath yet not warmed me . Fare you well .
The blood I drop is rather physical
Than dangerous to me . To Aufidius thus
I will appear and fight .

Ay , if you come not in the blood of others ,
But mantled in your own .

I do beseech you ,
By all the battles wherein we have fought ,
By th’ blood we have shed together , by th’ vows we
have made
To endure friends , that you directly set me
Against Aufidius and his Antiates ,
And that you not delay the present , but ,
Filling the air with swords advanced and darts ,
We prove this very hour .

Within these three hours ,
Tullus ,
Alone I fought in your Corioles’ walls
And made what work I pleased . ’Tis not my blood
Wherein thou seest me masked . For thy revenge ,
Wrench up thy power to th’ highest .

Pray now , no more . My mother ,
Who has a charter to extol her blood ,
When she does praise me grieves me . I have done
As you have done — that’s what I can ;
Induced as you have been — that’s for my country .
He that has but effected his good will
Hath overta’en mine act .

Go we to our tent .
The blood upon your visage dries ; ’tis time
It should be looked to . Come .

You know neither me , yourselves , nor anything .
You are ambitious for poor knaves’ caps
and legs . You wear out a good wholesome forenoon
in hearing a cause between an orange-wife
and a faucet-seller , and then rejourn the controversy
of threepence to a second day of audience .
When you are hearing a matter between party and
party , if you chance to be pinched with the colic ,
you make faces like mummers , set up the bloody
flag against all patience , and , in roaring for a
chamber pot , dismiss the controversy bleeding ,
the more entangled by your hearing . All the peace
you make in their cause is calling both the parties
knaves . You are a pair of strange ones .

Look , here’s a letter from him . The state hath another , his wife another ,
and I think there’s one at home for you .

Look , sir , your mother .

I shall lack voice . The deeds of Coriolanus
Should not be uttered feebly . It is held
That valor is the chiefest virtue and
Most dignifies the haver ; if it be ,
The man I speak of cannot in the world
Be singly counterpoised . At sixteen years ,
When Tarquin made a head for Rome , he fought
Beyond the mark of others . Our then dictator ,
Whom with all praise I point at , saw him fight
When with his Amazonian chin he drove
The bristled lips before him . He bestrid
An o’erpressed Roman and i’ th’ Consul’s view
Slew three opposers . Tarquin’s self he met
And struck him on his knee . In that day’s feats ,
When he might act the woman in the scene ,
He proved best man i’ th’ field and for his meed
Was brow-bound with the oak . His pupil age
Man-entered thus , he waxèd like a sea ,
And in the brunt of seventeen battles since
He lurched all swords of the garland . For this last ,
Before and in Corioles , let me say ,
I cannot speak him home . He stopped the flyers
And by his rare example made the coward
Turn terror into sport . As weeds before
A vessel under sail , so men obeyed
And fell below his stem . His sword , Death’s stamp ,
Where it did mark , it took ; from face to foot
He was a thing of blood , whose every motion
Was timed with dying cries . Alone he entered
The mortal gate o’ th’ city , which he painted
With shunless destiny ; aidless came off
And with a sudden reinforcement struck
Corioles like a planet . Now all’s his ,
When by and by the din of war gan pierce
His ready sense ; then straight his doubled spirit
Requickened what in flesh was fatigate ,
And to the battle came he , where he did
Run reeking o’er the lives of men as if
’Twere a perpetual spoil ; and till we called
Both field and city ours , he never stood
To ease his breast with panting .

Our spoils he kicked at
And looked upon things precious as they were
The common muck of the world . He covets less
Than misery itself would give , rewards
His deeds with doing them , and is content
To spend the time to end it .

What must I say ?
I pray , sir ? — plague upon ’t ! I cannot bring
My tongue to such a pace . Look , sir , my wounds !
I got them in my country’s service when
Some certain of your brethren roared and ran
From th’ noise of our own drums .

Fare you well .

He has it now ; and by his looks , methinks ,
’Tis warm at ’s heart .

How ? No more ?
As for my country I have shed my blood ,
Not fearing outward force , so shall my lungs
Coin words till their decay against those measles
Which we disdain should tetter us , yet sought
The very way to catch them .

O , he’s a limb that has but a disease —
Mortal to cut it off ; to cure it easy .
What has he done to Rome that’s worthy death ?
Killing our enemies , the blood he hath lost —
Which I dare vouch is more than that he hath
By many an ounce — he dropped it for his country ;
And what is left , to lose it by his country
Were to us all that do ’t and suffer it
A brand to th’ end o’ th’ world .

Noble tribunes ,
It is the humane way : the other course
Will prove too bloody , and the end of it
Unknown to the beginning .

Because that now it lies you on to speak
To th’ people , not by your own instruction ,
Nor by th’ matter which your heart prompts you ,
But with such words that are but roted in
Your tongue , though but bastards and syllables
Of no allowance to your bosom’s truth .
Now , this no more dishonors you at all
Than to take in a town with gentle words ,
Which else would put you to your fortune and
The hazard of much blood .
I would dissemble with my nature where
My fortunes and my friends at stake required
I should do so in honor . I am in this
Your wife , your son , these senators , the nobles ;
And you will rather show our general louts
How you can frown than spend a fawn upon ’em
For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard
Of what that want might ruin .

Pray be content .
Mother , I am going to the marketplace .
Chide me no more . I’ll mountebank their loves ,
Cog their hearts from them , and come home
beloved
Of all the trades in Rome . Look , I am going .
Commend me to my wife . I’ll return consul ,
Or never trust to what my tongue can do
I’ th’ way of flattery further .

Go about it .

Put him to choler straight . He hath been used
Ever to conquer and to have his worth
Of contradiction . Being once chafed , he cannot
Be reined again to temperance ; then he speaks
What’s in his heart , and that is there which looks
With us to break his neck .

A strange one as ever I looked on . I
cannot get him out o’ th’ house . Prithee , call my
master to him .

My name is Caius Martius , who hath done
To thee particularly and to all the Volsces
Great hurt and mischief ; thereto witness may
My surname Coriolanus . The painful service ,
The extreme dangers , and the drops of blood
Shed for my thankless country are requited
But with that surname , a good memory
And witness of the malice and displeasure
Which thou shouldst bear me . Only that name
remains .
The cruelty and envy of the people ,
Permitted by our dastard nobles , who
Have all forsook me , hath devoured the rest ,
And suffered me by th’ voice of slaves to be
Whooped out of Rome . Now this extremity
Hath brought me to thy hearth , not out of hope —
Mistake me not — to save my life ; for if
I had feared death , of all the men i’ th’ world
I would have ’voided thee , but in mere spite ,
To be full quit of those my banishers ,
Stand I before thee here . Then if thou hast
A heart of wreak in thee , that wilt revenge
Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims
Of shame seen through thy country , speed thee
straight
And make my misery serve thy turn . So use it
That my revengeful services may prove
As benefits to thee , for I will fight
Against my cankered country with the spleen
Of all the under fiends . But if so be
Thou dar’st not this , and that to prove more fortunes
Thou ’rt tired , then , in a word , I also am
Longer to live most weary , and present
My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice ,
Which not to cut would show thee but a fool ,
Since I have ever followed thee with hate ,
Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s breast ,
And cannot live but to thy shame , unless
It be to do thee service .

O Martius , Martius ,
Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my
heart
A root of ancient envy . If Jupiter
Should from yond cloud speak divine things
And say ’tis true , I’d not believe them more
Than thee , all-noble Martius . Let me twine
Mine arms about that body , whereagainst
My grainèd ash an hundred times hath broke
And scarred the moon with splinters .

Here I clip
The anvil of my sword and do contest
As hotly and as nobly with thy love
As ever in ambitious strength I did
Contend against thy valor . Know thou first ,
I loved the maid I married ; never man
Sighed truer breath . But that I see thee here ,
Thou noble thing , more dances my rapt heart
Than when I first my wedded mistress saw
Bestride my threshold . Why , thou Mars , I tell thee
We have a power on foot , and I had purpose
Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn
Or lose mine arm for ’t . Thou hast beat me out
Twelve several times , and I have nightly since
Dreamt of encounters ’twixt thyself and me ;
We have been down together in my sleep ,
Unbuckling helms , fisting each other’s throat ,
And waked half dead with nothing . Worthy Martius ,
Had we no other quarrel else to Rome but that
Thou art thence banished , we would muster all
From twelve to seventy and , pouring war
Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome ,
Like a bold flood o’erbear ’t . O , come , go in ,
And take our friendly senators by th’ hands ,
Who now are here , taking their leaves of me ,
Who am prepared against your territories ,
Though not for Rome itself .

He had so , looking as it were —
Would I were hanged but I thought there was
more in him than I could think .

Faith , look you , one cannot tell
how to say that . For the defense of a town our general
is excellent .

Do ’t ? He will do ’t ! For , look you ,
sir , he has as many friends as enemies , which
friends , sir , as it were , durst not , look you , sir , show
themselves , as we term it , his friends whilest he’s
in directitude .

But when they shall see , sir , his
crest up again , and the man in blood , they will out
of their burrows like coneys after rain , and revel
all with him .

Ay , and you’ll look pale
Before you find it other . All the regions
Do smilingly revolt , and who resists
Are mocked for valiant ignorance
And perish constant fools . Who is ’t can blame him ?
Your enemies and his find something in him .

I’ll undertake ’t .
I think he’ll hear me . Yet to bite his lip
And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me .
He was not taken well ; he had not dined .
The veins unfilled , our blood is cold , and then
We pout upon the morning , are unapt
To give or to forgive ; but when we have stuffed
These pipes and these conveyances of our blood
With wine and feeding , we have suppler souls
Than in our priestlike fasts . Therefore I’ll watch him
Till he be dieted to my request ,
And then I’ll set upon him .

My general cares not for you . Back , I say ,
go , lest I let forth your half pint of blood . Back !
That’s the utmost of your having . Back !

Now , you companion , I’ll
say an errand for you . You shall know now that I
am in estimation ; you shall perceive that a Jack
guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus .
Guess but by my entertainment with him
if thou stand’st not i’ th’ state of hanging or of some
death more long in spectatorship and crueler in
suffering ; behold now presently , and swoon for
what’s to come upon thee . The
glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular
prosperity and love thee no worse than thy old
father Menenius does ! O my son , my son ! Thou art preparing fire for us ; look thee ,
here’s water to quench it . I was hardly moved to
come to thee ; but being assured none but myself
could move thee , I have been blown out of your
gates with sighs , and conjure thee to pardon Rome
and thy petitionary countrymen . The good gods
assuage thy wrath and turn the dregs of it upon
this varlet here , this , who , like a block , hath denied
my access to thee .

This last old man ,
Whom with a cracked heart I have sent to Rome ,
Loved me above the measure of a father ,
Nay , godded me indeed . Their latest refuge
Was to send him , for whose old love I have —
Though I showed sourly to him — once more offered
The first conditions , which they did refuse
And cannot now accept , to grace him only
That thought he could do more . A very little
I have yielded to . Fresh embassies and suits ,
Nor from the state nor private friends , hereafter
Will I lend ear to .
Ha ? What shout is this ?
Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow
In the same time ’tis made ? I will not .



My wife comes foremost , then the honored mold
Wherein this trunk was framed , and in her hand
The grandchild to her blood . But out , affection !
All bond and privilege of nature , break !
Let it be virtuous to be obstinate .
What is that curtsy worth ? Or those doves’ eyes ,
Which can make gods forsworn ? I melt and am not
Of stronger earth than others .
My mother bows ,
As if Olympus to a molehill should
In supplication nod ; and my young boy
Hath an aspect of intercession which
Great Nature cries Deny not ! Let the Volsces
Plow Rome and harrow Italy , I’ll never
Be such a gosling to obey instinct , but stand
As if a man were author of himself ,
And knew no other kin .

Should we be silent and not speak , our raiment
And state of bodies would bewray what life
We have led since thy exile . Think with thyself
How more unfortunate than all living women
Are we come hither ; since that thy sight , which
should
Make our eyes flow with joy , hearts dance with
comforts ,
Constrains them weep and shake with fear and
sorrow ,
Making the mother , wife , and child to see
The son , the husband , and the father tearing
His country’s bowels out . And to poor we
Thine enmity’s most capital . Thou barr’st us
Our prayers to the gods , which is a comfort
That all but we enjoy . For how can we —
Alas , how can we — for our country pray ,
Whereto we are bound , together with thy victory ,
Whereto we are bound ? Alack , or we must lose
The country , our dear nurse , or else thy person ,
Our comfort in the country . We must find
An evident calamity , though we had
Our wish , which side should win , for either thou
Must as a foreign recreant be led
With manacles through our streets , or else
Triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin
And bear the palm for having bravely shed
Thy wife and children’s blood . For myself , son ,
I purpose not to wait on fortune till
These wars determine . If I cannot persuade thee
Rather to show a noble grace to both parts
Than seek the end of one , thou shalt no sooner
March to assault thy country than to tread —
Trust to ’t , thou shalt not — on thy mother’s womb
That brought thee to this world .

O mother , mother !
What have you done ? Behold , the heavens do ope ,
The gods look down , and this unnatural scene
They laugh at . O , my mother , mother , O !
You have won a happy victory to Rome ,
But , for your son — believe it , O , believe it ! —
Most dangerously you have with him prevailed ,
If not most mortal to him . But let it come . —
Aufidius , though I cannot make true wars ,
I’ll frame convenient peace . Now , good Aufidius ,
Were you in my stead , would you have heard
A mother less ? Or granted less , Aufidius ?

So he did , my lord .
The army marvelled at it , and , in the last ,
When he had carried Rome and that we looked
For no less spoil than glory —

There was it
For which my sinews shall be stretched upon him .
At a few drops of women’s rheum , which are
As cheap as lies , he sold the blood and labor
Of our great action . Therefore shall he die ,
And I’ll renew me in his fall . But hark !

Hail , lords ! I am returned your soldier ,
No more infected with my country’s love
Than when I parted hence , but still subsisting
Under your great command . You are to know
That prosperously I have attempted , and
With bloody passage led your wars even to
The gates of Rome . Our spoils we have brought
home
Doth more than counterpoise a full third part
The charges of the action . We have made peace
With no less honor to the Antiates
Than shame to th’ Romans , and we here deliver ,
Subscribed by’ th’ Consuls and patricians ,
Together with the seal o’ th’ Senate , what
We have compounded on .

Ay , Martius , Caius Martius . Dost thou think
I’ll grace thee with that robbery , thy stol’n name
Coriolanus , in Corioles ?
You lords and heads o’ th’ state , perfidiously
He has betrayed your business and given up
For certain drops of salt your city Rome —
I say your city — to his wife and mother ,
Breaking his oath and resolution like
A twist of rotten silk , never admitting
Counsel o’ th’ war , but at his nurse’s tears
He whined and roared away your victory ,
That pages blushed at him and men of heart
Looked wond’ring each at other .

You do not meet a man but frowns . Our bloods
No more obey the heavens than our courtiers’
Still seem as does the King’s .

He that hath lost her , too . So is the Queen ,
That most desired the match . But not a courtier ,
Although they wear their faces to the bent
Of the King’s looks , hath a heart that is not
Glad at the thing they scowl at .

Nay , stay a little !
Were you but riding forth to air yourself ,
Such parting were too petty . Look here , love :
This diamond was my mother’s . Take it , heart ,
But keep it till you woo another wife
When Imogen is dead .

Thou basest thing , avoid hence , from my sight !
If after this command thou fraught the court
With thy unworthiness , thou diest . Away !
Thou ’rt poison to my blood .

Nay , let her languish
A drop of blood a day , and being aged
Die of this folly .

If my shirt were bloody , then to shift it . Have I
hurt him ?

I would have broke mine eyestrings , cracked them ,
but
To look upon him till the diminution
Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle ;
Nay , followed him till he had melted from
The smallness of a gnat to air ; and then
Have turned mine eye and wept . But , good Pisanio ,
When shall we hear from him ?

Believe it , sir , I have seen him in Britain . He
was then of a crescent note , expected to prove so
worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of .
But I could then have looked on him without the
help of admiration , though the catalogue of his
endowments had been tabled by his side and I to
peruse him by items .

Safely , I think . ’Twas a contention in public ,
which may without contradiction suffer the report .
It was much like an argument that fell out
last night , where each of us fell in praise of our
country mistresses , this gentleman at that time
vouching — and upon warrant of bloody affirmation —
his to be more fair , virtuous , wise , chaste ,
constant , qualified , and less attemptable than any
the rarest of our ladies in France .

Ay , madam , with his eyes in flood with laughter .
It is a recreation to be by
And hear him mock the Frenchman . But heavens
know
Some men are much to blame .

Am I one , sir ?
You look on me . What wrack discern you in me
Deserves your pity ?

Is it fit I went to look upon him ? Is there no
derogation in ’t ?

Your very goodness and your company
O’erpays all I can do . By this , your king
Hath heard of great Augustus . Caius Lucius
Will do ’s commission throughly . And I think
He’ll grant the tribute , send th’ arrearages ,
Or look upon our Romans , whose remembrance
Is yet fresh in their grief .

Your lady
Is one of the fairest that I have looked upon .

And therewithal the best , or let her beauty
Look thorough a casement to allure false hearts
And be false with them .

O , no , no , no , ’tis true . Here , take this too .

It is a basilisk unto mine eye ,
Kills me to look on ’t . Let there be no honor
Where there is beauty , truth where semblance , love
Where there’s another man . The vows of women
Of no more bondage be to where they are made
Than they are to their virtues , which is nothing .
O , above measure false !

Is there no way for men to be , but women
Must be half-workers ? We are all bastards ,
And that most venerable man which I
Did call my father was I know not where
When I was stamped . Some coiner with his tools
Made me a counterfeit ; yet my mother seemed
The Dian of that time ; so doth my wife
The nonpareil of this . O , vengeance , vengeance !
Me of my lawful pleasure she restrained
And prayed me oft forbearance ; did it with
A pudency so rosy the sweet view on ’t
Might well have warmed old Saturn , that I thought
her
As chaste as unsunned snow . O , all the devils !
This yellow Iachimo in an hour , was ’t not ?
Or less ? At first ? Perchance he spoke not , but ,
Like a full-acorned boar , a German one ,
Cried O ! and mounted ; found no opposition
But what he looked for should oppose and she
Should from encounter guard . Could I find out
The woman’s part in me — for there’s no motion
That tends to vice in man but I affirm
It is the woman’s part : be it lying , note it ,
The woman’s ; flattering , hers ; deceiving , hers ;
Lust and rank thoughts , hers , hers ; revenges , hers ;
Ambitions , covetings , change of prides , disdain ,
Nice longing , slanders , mutability ,
All faults that have a name , nay , that hell knows ,
Why , hers , in part or all , but rather all .
For even to vice
They are not constant , but are changing still
One vice but of a minute old for one
Not half so old as that . I’ll write against them ,
Detest them , curse them . Yet ’tis greater skill
In a true hate to pray they have their will ;
The very devils cannot plague them better .

I am sorry , Cymbeline ,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar —
Caesar , that hath more kings his servants than
Thyself domestic officers — thine enemy .
Receive it from me , then : war and confusion
In Caesar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee . Look
For fury not to be resisted . Thus defied ,
I thank thee for myself .

How ? Of adultery ? Wherefore write you not
What monsters her accuse ? Leonatus ,
O master , what a strange infection
Is fall’n into thy ear ! What false Italian ,
As poisonous-tongued as handed , hath prevailed
On thy too ready hearing ? Disloyal ? No .
She’s punished for her truth and undergoes ,
More goddesslike than wifelike , such assaults
As would take in some virtue . O my master ,
Thy mind to her is now as low as were
Thy fortunes . How ? That I should murder her ,
Upon the love and truth and vows which I
Have made to thy command ? I her ? Her blood ?
If it be so to do good service , never
Let me be counted serviceable . How look I
That I should seem to lack humanity
So much as this fact comes to ? Do ’t !
The letter
That I have sent her , by her own command
Shall give thee opportunity . O damned paper ,
Black as the ink that’s on thee ! Senseless bauble ,
Art thou a fedary for this act , and look’st
So virginlike without ? Lo , here she comes .



I am ignorant in what I am commanded .

I see before me , man . Nor here , nor here ,
Nor what ensues , but have a fog in them
That I cannot look through . Away , I prithee .
Do as I bid thee . There’s no more to say .
Accessible is none but Milford way .

How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature !
These boys know little they are sons to th’ King ,
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive .
They think they are mine , and , though trained up
thus meanly ,
I’ th’ cave wherein they bow , their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces , and nature prompts them
In simple and low things to prince it much
Beyond the trick of others . This Polydor ,
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain , who
The King his father called Guiderius — Jove !
When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell
The warlike feats I have done , his spirits fly out
Into my story ; say Thus mine enemy fell ,
And thus I set my foot on ’s neck , even then
The princely blood flows in his cheek , he sweats ,
Strains his young nerves , and puts himself in posture
That acts my words . The younger brother , Cadwal ,
Once Arviragus , in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech and shows much more
His own conceiving . Hark , the game is roused !
O Cymbeline , heaven and my conscience knows
Thou didst unjustly banish me ; whereon ,
At three and two years old I stole these babes ,
Thinking to bar thee of succession as
Thou refts me of my lands . Euriphile ,
Thou wast their nurse ; they took thee for their
mother ,
And every day do honor to her grave .
Myself , Belarius , that am Morgan called ,
They take for natural father . The game is up !

Thou told’st me , when we came from horse , the place
Was near at hand . Ne’er longed my mother so
To see me first as I have now . Pisanio , man ,
Where is Posthumus ? What is in thy mind
That makes thee stare thus ? Wherefore breaks that
sigh
From th’ inward of thee ? One but painted thus
Would be interpreted a thing perplexed
Beyond self-explication . Put thyself
Into a havior of less fear , ere wildness
Vanquish my staider senses . What’s the matter ?

Why tender’st thou that paper to me with
A look untender ? If ’t be summer news ,
Smile to ’t before ; if winterly , thou need’st
But keep that count’nance still . My husband’s hand !
That drug-damned Italy hath out-craftied him ,
And he’s at some hard point . Speak , man ! Thy tongue
May take off some extremity , which to read
Would be even mortal to me .

I false ? Thy conscience witness ! Iachimo ,
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency .
Thou then looked’st like a villain . Now methinks
Thy favor’s good enough . Some jay of Italy ,
Whose mother was her painting , hath betrayed him .
Poor I am stale , a garment out of fashion ,
And , for I am richer than to hang by th’ walls ,
I must be ripped . To pieces with me ! O ,
Men’s vows are women’s traitors ! All good seeming ,
By thy revolt , O husband , shall be thought
Put on for villainy , not born where ’t grows ,
But worn a bait for ladies .

True honest men , being heard like false Aeneas ,
Were in his time thought false , and Sinon’s weeping
Did scandal many a holy tear , took pity
From most true wretchedness . So thou , Posthumus ,
Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men ;
Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjured
From thy great fail . — Come , fellow , be thou honest ;
Do thou thy master’s bidding . When thou seest him ,
A little witness my obedience . Look ,
I draw the sword myself .

Take it , and hit
The innocent mansion of my love , my heart .
Fear not ; ’tis empty of all things but grief .
Thy master is not there , who was indeed
The riches of it . Do his bidding ; strike .
Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause ,
But now thou seem’st a coward .

No , on my life .
I’ll give but notice you are dead , and send him
Some bloody sign of it , for ’tis commanded
I should do so . You shall be missed at court ,
And that will well confirm it .

’Tis not sleepy business ,
But must be looked to speedily and strongly .

Our expectation that it would be thus
Hath made us forward . But , my gentle queen ,
Where is our daughter ? She hath not appeared
Before the Roman , nor to us hath tendered
The duty of the day . She looks us like
A thing more made of malice than of duty .
We have noted it . — Call her before us , for
We have been too slight in sufferance .

Go , look after .

Pisanio , thou that stand’st so for Posthumus —
He hath a drug of mine . I pray his absence
Proceed by swallowing that , for he believes
It is a thing most precious . But for her ,
Where is she gone ? Haply despair hath seized her ,
Or , winged with fervor of her love , she’s flown
To her desired Posthumus . Gone she is
To death or to dishonor , and my end
Can make good use of either . She being down ,
I have the placing of the British crown .



How now , my son ?

I see a man’s life is a tedious one .
I have tired myself , and for two nights together
Have made the ground my bed . I should be sick
But that my resolution helps me . Milford ,
When from the mountain top Pisanio showed thee ,
Thou wast within a ken . O Jove , I think
Foundations fly the wretched — such , I mean ,
Where they should be relieved . Two beggars told me
I could not miss my way . Will poor folks lie ,
That have afflictions on them , knowing ’tis
A punishment or trial ? Yes . No wonder ,
When rich ones scarce tell true . To lapse in fullness
Is sorer than to lie for need , and falsehood
Is worse in kings than beggars . My dear lord ,
Thou art one o’ th’ false ones . Now I think on thee ,
My hunger’s gone ; but even before , I was
At point to sink for food . But what is this ?
Here is a path to ’t . ’Tis some savage hold .
I were best not call ; I dare not call . Yet famine ,
Ere clean it o’erthrow nature , makes it valiant .
Plenty and peace breeds cowards ; hardness ever
Of hardiness is mother . — Ho ! Who’s here ?
If anything that’s civil , speak ; if savage ,
Take or lend . Ho ! — No answer ? Then I’ll enter .
Best draw my sword ; an if mine enemy
But fear the sword like me , he’ll scarcely look on ’t .

Such a foe , good heavens !

Stay , come
not in !
But that it eats our victuals , I should think
Here were a fairy .

Good masters , harm me not .
Before I entered here , I called , and thought
To have begged or bought what I have took . Good
troth ,
I have stol’n naught , nor would not , though I had
found
Gold strewed i’ th’ floor . Here’s money for my meat .

I would have left it on the board so soon
As I had made my meal , and parted
With prayers for the provider .

Poor sick Fidele .
I’ll willingly to him . To gain his color
I’d let a parish of such Clotens blood ,
And praise myself for charity .

O thou goddess ,
Thou divine Nature , thou thyself thou blazon’st
In these two princely boys ! They are as gentle
As zephyrs blowing below the violet ,
Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as rough ,
Their royal blood enchafed , as the rud’st wind
That by the top doth take the mountain pine
And make him stoop to th’ vale . ’Tis wonder
That an invisible instinct should frame them
To royalty unlearned , honor untaught ,
Civility not seen from other , valor
That wildly grows in them but yields a crop
As if it had been sowed . Yet still it’s strange
What Cloten’s being here to us portends ,
Or what his death will bring us .

Look , here he comes ,
And brings the dire occasion in his arms
Of what we blame him for .

O’ th’ floor ,
His arms thus leagued . I thought he slept , and put
My clouted brogues from off my feet , whose rudeness
Answered my steps too loud .

Yes , sir , to Milford Haven . Which is the way ?
I thank you . By yond bush ? Pray , how far thither ?
Ods pittikins , can it be six mile yet ?
I have gone all night . Faith , I’ll lie down and sleep .

But soft ! No bedfellow ? O gods and goddesses !
These flowers are like the pleasures of the world ,
This bloody man the care on ’t . I hope I dream ,
For so I thought I was a cave-keeper
And cook to honest creatures . But ’tis not so .
’Twas but a bolt of nothing , shot at nothing ,
Which the brain makes of fumes . Our very eyes
Are sometimes like our judgments , blind . Good faith ,
I tremble still with fear ; but if there be
Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity
As a wren’s eye , feared gods , a part of it !
The dream’s here still . Even when I wake it is
Without me as within me , not imagined , felt .
A headless man ? The garments of Posthumus ?
I know the shape of ’s leg . This is his hand ,
His foot Mercurial , his Martial thigh ,
The brawns of Hercules ; but his Jovial face —
Murder in heaven ! How ? ’Tis gone . Pisanio ,
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks ,
And mine to boot , be darted on thee ! Thou ,
Conspired with that irregulous devil Cloten ,
Hath here cut off my lord . To write and read
Be henceforth treacherous . Damned Pisanio
Hath with his forgèd letters — damned Pisanio —
From this most bravest vessel of the world
Struck the maintop . O Posthumus , alas ,
Where is thy head ? Where’s that ? Ay me , where’s that ?
Pisanio might have killed thee at the heart
And left this head on . How should this be ? Pisanio ?
’Tis he and Cloten . Malice and lucre in them
Have laid this woe here . O , ’tis pregnant , pregnant !
The drug he gave me , which he said was precious
And cordial to me , have I not found it
Murd’rous to th’ senses ? That confirms it home .
This is Pisanio’s deed , and Cloten . O ,
Give color to my pale cheek with thy blood ,
That we the horrider may seem to those
Which chance to find us . O my lord ! My lord !

This forwardness
Makes our hopes fair . Command our present numbers
Be mustered ; bid the Captains look to ’t . — Now , sir ,
What have you dreamed of late of this war’s purpose ?

He’ll then instruct us of this body . — Young one ,
Inform us of thy fortunes , for it seems
They crave to be demanded . Who is this
Thou mak’st thy bloody pillow ? Or who was he
That , otherwise than noble nature did ,
Hath altered that good picture ? What’s thy interest
In this sad wrack ? How came ’t ? Who is ’t ?
What art thou ?

By this sun that shines ,
I’ll thither . What thing is ’t that I never
Did see man die , scarce ever looked on blood
But that of coward hares , hot goats , and venison !
Never bestrid a horse save one that had
A rider like myself , who ne’er wore rowel
Nor iron on his heel ! I am ashamed
To look upon the holy sun , to have
The benefit of his blest beams , remaining
So long a poor unknown .

No reason I — since of your lives you set
So slight a valuation — should reserve
My cracked one to more care . Have with you , boys !
If in your country wars you chance to die ,
That is my bed , too , lads , and there I’ll lie .
Lead , lead . The time seems long ; their
blood thinks scorn
Till it fly out and show them princes born .

Yea , bloody cloth , I’ll keep thee , for I wished
Thou shouldst be colored thus . You married ones ,
If each of you should take this course , how many
Must murder wives much better than themselves
For wrying but a little ! O Pisanio ,
Every good servant does not all commands ;
No bond but to do just ones . Gods , if you
Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults , I never
Had lived to put on this ; so had you saved
The noble Imogen to repent , and struck
Me , wretch more worth your vengeance . But , alack ,
You snatch some hence for little faults ; that’s love ,
To have them fall no more ; you some permit
To second ills with ills , each elder worse ,
And make them dread it , to the doers’ thrift .
But Imogen is your own . Do your best wills ,
And make me blest to obey . I am brought hither
Among th’ Italian gentry , and to fight
Against my lady’s kingdom . ’Tis enough
That , Britain , I have killed thy mistress . Peace ,
I’ll give no wound to thee . Therefore , good heavens ,
Hear patiently my purpose . I’ll disrobe me
Of these Italian weeds and suit myself
As does a Briton peasant . So I’ll fight
Against the part I come with ; so I’ll die
For thee , O Imogen , even for whom my life
Is every breath a death . And thus , unknown ,
Pitied nor hated , to the face of peril
Myself I’ll dedicate . Let me make men know
More valor in me than my habits show .
Gods , put the strength o’ th’ Leonati in me .
To shame the guise o’ th’ world , I will begin
The fashion : less without and more within .

Close by the battle , ditched , and walled with turf ;
Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier ,
An honest one , I warrant , who deserved
So long a breeding as his white beard came to ,
In doing this for ’s country . Athwart the lane ,
He with two striplings — lads more like to run
The country base than to commit such slaughter ,
With faces fit for masks , or rather fairer
Than those for preservation cased or shame —
Made good the passage , cried to those that fled
Our Britain’s harts die flying , not our men .
To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards . Stand ,
Or we are Romans and will give you that
Like beasts which you shun beastly , and may save
But to look back in frown . Stand , stand ! These three ,
Three thousand confident , in act as many —
For three performers are the file when all
The rest do nothing — with this word Stand , stand ,
Accommodated by the place , more charming
With their own nobleness , which could have turned
A distaff to a lance , gilded pale looks ,
Part shame , part spirit renewed ; that some , turned
coward
But by example — O , a sin in war ,
Damned in the first beginners ! — gan to look
The way that they did and to grin like lions
Upon the pikes o’ th’ hunters . Then began
A stop i’ th’ chaser , a retire ; anon
A rout , confusion thick . Forthwith they fly
Chickens the way which they stooped eagles ; slaves
The strides they victors made ; and now our
cowards ,
Like fragments in hard voyages , became
The life o’ th’ need . Having found the backdoor open
Of the unguarded hearts , heavens , how they wound !
Some slain before , some dying , some their friends
O’erborne i’ th’ former wave , ten chased by one ,
Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty .
Those that would die or ere resist are grown
The mortal bugs o’ th’ field .

Thy crystal window ope ; look out .
No longer exercise
Upon a valiant race thy harsh
And potent injuries .

Indeed , sir , he that sleeps feels not the
toothache . But a man that were to sleep your
sleep , and a hangman to help him to bed , I think
he would change places with his officer ; for , look
you , sir , you know not which way you shall go .

I never saw
Such noble fury in so poor a thing ,
Such precious deeds in one that promised naught
But beggary and poor looks .

Bow your knees .

Arise my knights o’ th’ battle . I create you
Companions to our person , and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates .



There’s business in these faces . Why so sadly
Greet you our victory ? You look like Romans ,
And not o’ th’ court of Britain .

Consider , sir , the chance of war . The day
Was yours by accident . Had it gone with us ,
We should not , when the blood was cool , have
threatened
Our prisoners with the sword . But since the gods
Will have it thus , that nothing but our lives
May be called ransom , let it come . Sufficeth
A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer .
Augustus lives to think on ’t ; and so much
For my peculiar care . This one thing only
I will entreat : my boy , a Briton born ,
Let him be ransomed . Never master had
A page so kind , so duteous , diligent ,
So tender over his occasions , true ,
So feat , so nurselike . Let his virtue join
With my request , which I’ll make bold your Highness
Cannot deny . He hath done no Briton harm ,
Though he have served a Roman . Save him , sir ,
And spare no blood beside .

I have surely seen him .
His favor is familiar to me . — Boy ,
Thou hast looked thyself into my grace
And art mine own . I know not why , wherefore ,
To say Live , boy . Ne’er thank thy master . Live ,
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt ,
Fitting my bounty and thy state , I’ll give it ,
Yea , though thou do demand a prisoner ,
The noblest ta’en .

What would’st thou , boy ?
I love thee more and more . Think more and more
What’s best to ask . Know’st him thou look’st on ?
Speak .
Wilt have him live ? Is he thy kin ? Thy friend ?

That paragon , thy daughter ,
For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits
Quail to remember — Give me leave ; I faint .

I am too blunt and saucy . Here’s my knee .

Ere I arise I will prefer my sons ,
Then spare not the old father . Mighty sir ,
These two young gentlemen that call me father
And think they are my sons are none of mine .
They are the issue of your loins , my liege ,
And blood of your begetting .

Laud we the gods ,
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
From our blest altars . Publish we this peace
To all our subjects . Set we forward . Let
A Roman and a British ensign wave
Friendly together . So through Lud’s Town march ,
And in the temple of great Jupiter
Our peace we’ll ratify , seal it with feasts .
Set on there . Never was a war did cease ,
Ere bloody hands were washed , with such a peace .

Peace , break thee off ! Look where it comes again .

Looks he not like the King ? Mark it , Horatio .

How now , Horatio , you tremble and look pale .
Is not this something more than fantasy ?
What think you on ’t ?

A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye .
In the most high and palmy state of Rome ,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell ,
The graves stood tenantless , and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets ;
As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood ,
Disasters in the sun ; and the moist star ,
Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands ,
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse .
And even the like precurse of feared events ,
As harbingers preceding still the fates
And prologue to the omen coming on ,
Have heaven and Earth earth together demonstrated
Unto our climatures and countrymen .



But soft , behold ! Lo , where it comes again !
I’ll cross it though it blast me . — Stay , illusion !

If thou hast any sound or use of voice ,
Speak to me .
If there be any good thing to be done
That may to thee do ease and grace to me ,
Speak to me .
If thou art privy to thy country’s fate ,
Which happily foreknowing may avoid ,
O , speak !
Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life
Extorted treasure in the womb of earth ,
For which , they say , you spirits oft walk in death ,
Speak of it .
Stay and speak ! — Stop it , Marcellus .

So have I heard and do in part believe it .
But look , the morn in russet mantle clad
Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill .
Break we our watch up , and by my advice
Let us impart what we have seen tonight
Unto young Hamlet ; for , upon my life ,
This spirit , dumb to us , will speak to him .
Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it
As needful in our loves , fitting our duty ?

Good Hamlet , cast thy nighted color off ,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark .
Do not forever with thy vailèd lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust .
Thou know’st ’tis common ; all that lives must die ,
Passing through nature to eternity .

He was a man . Take him for all in all ,
I shall not look upon his like again .

What , looked he frowningly ?

For Hamlet , and the trifling of his favor ,
Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood ,
A violet in the youth of primy nature ,
Forward , not permanent , sweet , not lasting ,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute ,
No more .

Yet here , Laertes ? Aboard , aboard , for shame !
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail ,
And you are stayed for . There , my blessing with
thee .
And these few precepts in thy memory
Look thou character . Give thy thoughts no tongue ,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act .
Be thou familiar , but by no means vulgar .
Those friends thou hast , and their adoption tried ,
Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel ,
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched , unfledged courage . Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel , but , being in ,
Bear ’t that th’ opposèd may beware of thee .
Give every man thy ear , but few thy voice .
Take each man’s censure , but reserve thy judgment .
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy ,
But not expressed in fancy ( rich , not gaudy ) ,
For the apparel oft proclaims the man ,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that .
Neither a borrower nor a lender be ,
For loan oft loses both itself and friend ,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry .
This above all : to thine own self be true ,
And it must follow , as the night the day ,
Thou canst not then be false to any man .
Farewell . My blessing season this in thee .

Ay , springes to catch woodcocks . I do know ,
When the blood burns , how prodigal the soul
Lends the tongue vows . These blazes , daughter ,
Giving more light than heat , extinct in both
Even in their promise as it is a-making ,
You must not take for fire . From this time
Be something scanter of your maiden presence .
Set your entreatments at a higher rate
Than a command to parle . For Lord Hamlet ,
Believe so much in him that he is young ,
And with a larger tether may he walk
Than may be given you . In few , Ophelia ,
Do not believe his vows , for they are brokers ,
Not of that dye which their investments show ,
But mere implorators of unholy suits ,
Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds
The better to beguile . This is for all :
I would not , in plain terms , from this time forth
Have you so slander any moment leisure
As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet .
Look to ’t , I charge you . Come your ways .

Look , my lord , it comes .

Look with what courteous action
It waves you to a more removèd ground .
But do not go with it .

What if it tempt you toward the flood , my lord ?
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff
That beetles o’er his base into the sea ,
And there assume some other horrible form
Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason
And draw you into madness ? Think of it .
The very place puts toys of desperation ,
Without more motive , into every brain
That looks so many fathoms to the sea
And hears it roar beneath .

I am thy father’s spirit ,
Doomed for a certain term to walk the night
And for the day confined to fast in fires
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and purged away . But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison house ,
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul , freeze thy young blood ,
Make thy two eyes , like stars , start from their
spheres ,
Thy knotted and combinèd locks to part ,
And each particular hair to stand an end ,
Like quills upon the fearful porpentine .
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood . List , list , O list !
If thou didst ever thy dear father love —

Ay , that incestuous , that adulterate beast ,
With witchcraft of his wits wit , with traitorous gifts —
O wicked wit and gifts , that have the power
So to seduce ! — won to his shameful lust
The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen .
O Hamlet , what a falling off was there !
From me , whose love was of that dignity
That it went hand in hand even with the vow
I made to her in marriage , and to decline
Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor
To those of mine .
But virtue , as it never will be moved ,
Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven ,
So , lust , though to a radiant angel linked ,
Will sate itself in a celestial bed
And prey on garbage .
But soft , methinks I scent the morning air .
Brief let me be . Sleeping within my orchard ,
My custom always of the afternoon ,
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole ,
With juice of cursèd hebona in a vial ,
And in the porches of my ears did pour
The leprous distilment , whose effect
Holds such an enmity with blood of man
That swift as quicksilver it courses through
The natural gates and alleys of the body ,
And with a sudden vigor it doth posset
And curd , like eager droppings into milk ,
The thin and wholesome blood . So did it mine ,
And a most instant tetter barked about ,
Most lazar-like , with vile and loathsome crust
All my smooth body .
Thus was I , sleeping , by a brother’s hand
Of life , of crown , of queen at once dispatched ,
Cut off , even in the blossoms of my sin ,
Unhouseled , disappointed , unaneled ,
No reck’ning made , but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head .
O horrible , O horrible , most horrible !
If thou hast nature in thee , bear it not .
Let not the royal bed of Denmark be
A couch for luxury and damnèd incest .
But , howsomever thou pursues this act ,
Taint not thy mind , nor let thy soul contrive
Against thy mother aught . Leave her to heaven
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge
To prick and sting her . Fare thee well at once .
The glowworm shows the matin to be near
And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire .
Adieu , adieu , adieu . Remember me .

Marry , well said , very well said . Look you , sir ,
Inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris ;
And how , and who , what means , and where they
keep ,
What company , at what expense ; and finding
By this encompassment and drift of question
That they do know my son , come you more nearer
Than your particular demands will touch it .
Take you , as ’twere , some distant knowledge of him ,
As thus : I know his father and his friends
And , in part , him . Do you mark this , Reynaldo ?

Faith , no , as you may season it in the charge .
You must not put another scandal on him
That he is open to incontinency ;
That’s not my meaning . But breathe his faults so
quaintly
That they may seem the taints of liberty ,
The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind ,
A savageness in unreclaimèd blood ,
Of general assault .

My lord , as I was sewing in my closet ,
Lord Hamlet , with his doublet all unbraced ,
No hat upon his head , his stockings fouled ,
Ungartered , and down-gyvèd to his ankle ,
Pale as his shirt , his knees knocking each other ,
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosèd out of hell
To speak of horrors — he comes before me .

Most fair return of greetings and desires .
Upon our first , he sent out to suppress
His nephew’s levies , which to him appeared
To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack ,
But , better looked into , he truly found
It was against your Highness . Whereat , grieved
That so his sickness , age , and impotence
Was falsely borne in hand , sends out arrests
On Fortinbras , which he , in brief , obeys ,
Receives rebuke from Norway , and , in fine ,
Makes vow before his uncle never more
To give th’ assay of arms against your Majesty .
Whereon old Norway , overcome with joy ,
Gives him three-score thousand crowns in annual
fee
And his commission to employ those soldiers ,
So levied as before , against the Polack ,
With an entreaty , herein further shown ,

That it might please you to give quiet pass
Through your dominions for this enterprise ,
On such regards of safety and allowance
As therein are set down .

I would fain prove so . But what might you think ,
When I had seen this hot love on the wing
( As I perceived it , I must tell you that ,
Before my daughter told me ) , what might you ,
Or my dear Majesty your queen here , think ,
If I had played the desk or table-book
Or given my heart a winking , mute and dumb ,
Or looked upon this love with idle sight ?
What might you think ? No , I went round to work ,
And my young mistress thus I did bespeak :
Lord Hamlet is a prince , out of thy star .
This must not be . And then I prescripts gave her ,
That she should lock herself from his resort ,
Admit no messengers , receive no tokens ;
Which done , she took the fruits of my advice ,
And he , repelled ( a short tale to make ) ,
Fell into a sadness , then into a fast ,
Thence to a watch , thence into a weakness ,
Thence to a lightness , and , by this declension ,
Into the madness wherein now he raves
And all we mourn for .

At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him .
Be you and I behind an arras then .
Mark the encounter . If he love her not ,
And be not from his reason fall’n thereon ,
Let me be no assistant for a state ,
But keep a farm and carters .

But look where sadly the poor wretch comes
reading .

Let her not walk i’ th’ sun . Conception is a
blessing , but , as your daughter may conceive ,
friend , look to ’t .

Anything but to th’ purpose . You were sent
for , and there is a kind of confession in your looks
which your modesties have not craft enough to
color . I know the good king and queen have sent for
you .

I will tell you why ; so shall my anticipation
prevent your discovery , and your secrecy to the
King and Queen molt no feather . I have of late , but
wherefore I know not , lost all my mirth , forgone all
custom of exercises , and , indeed , it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame , the
Earth earth , seems to me a sterile promontory ; this most
excellent canopy , the air , look you , this brave o’erhanging
firmament , this majestical roof , fretted
with golden fire — why , it appeareth nothing to me
but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors .
What a piece of work is a man , how noble in
reason , how infinite in faculties , in form and moving
how express and admirable ; in action how like
an angel , in apprehension how like a god : the
beauty of the world , the paragon of animals — and
yet , to me , what is this quintessence of dust ? Man
delights not me , no , nor women neither , though by
your smiling you seem to say so .

It is not very strange ; for my uncle is King of
Denmark , and those that would make mouths at
him while my father lived give twenty , forty , fifty ,
a
hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little .
’Sblood , there is something in this more than natural ,
if philosophy could find it out .

Why ,
As by lot , God wot
and then , you know ,
It came to pass , as most like it was —
the first row of the pious chanson will show you
more , for look where my abridgment comes .



You are welcome , masters ; welcome all . — I am glad
to see thee well . — Welcome , good friends . — O my
old friend ! Why , thy face is valanced since I saw thee
last . Com’st thou to beard me in Denmark ? — What ,
my young lady and mistress ! By ’r Lady , your Ladyship ladyship
is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last , by
the altitude of a chopine . Pray God your voice , like a
piece of uncurrent gold , be not cracked within the
ring . Masters , you are all welcome . We’ll e’en to ’t
like French falconers , fly at anything we see . We’ll
have a speech straight . Come , give us a taste of your
quality . Come , a passionate speech .

I heard thee speak me a speech once , but it
was never acted , or , if it was , not above once ; for
the play , I remember , pleased not the million :
’twas caviary to the general . But it was ( as I
received it , and others whose judgments in such
matters cried in the top of mine ) an excellent play ,
well digested in the scenes , set down with as much
modesty as cunning . I remember one said there
were no sallets in the lines to make the matter
savory , nor no matter in the phrase that might indict
the author of affection affectation , but called it an honest
method , as wholesome as sweet and , by very much ,
more handsome than fine . One speech in ’t I
chiefly loved . ’Twas Aeneas’ tale to Dido , and
thereabout of it especially when he speaks of
Priam’s slaughter . If it live in your memory , begin at
this line — let me see , let me see :
The rugged Pyrrhus , like th’ Hyrcanian beast —
’tis not so ; it begins with Pyrrhus :
The rugged Pyrrhus , he whose sable arms ,
Black as his purpose , did the night resemble
When he lay couchèd in th’ ominous horse ,
Hath now this dread and black complexion smeared
With heraldry more dismal . Head to foot ,
Now is he total gules , horridly tricked
With blood of fathers , mothers , daughters , sons ,
Baked and impasted with the parching streets ,
That lend a tyrannous and a damnèd light
To their lord’s murder . Roasted in wrath and fire ,
And thus o’ersizèd with coagulate gore ,
With eyes like carbuncles , the hellish Pyrrhus
Old grandsire Priam seeks .
So , proceed you .

Look whe’er he has not turned his color and
has tears in ’s eyes . Prithee , no more .

Very well . Follow that lord — and look you
mock him not . My good friends ,
I’ll leave you till night . You are welcome to Elsinore .

Ay , so , good-bye to you .

Now I am alone .
O , what a rogue and peasant slave am I !
Is it not monstrous that this player here ,
But in a fiction , in a dream of passion ,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wanned ,
Tears in his eyes , distraction in his aspect ,
A broken voice , and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit — and all for nothing !
For Hecuba !
What’s Hecuba to him , or he to Hecuba ,
That he should weep for her ? What would he do
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have ? He would drown the stage with tears
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech ,
Make mad the guilty and appall the free ,
Confound the ignorant and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears . Yet I ,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal , peak
Like John-a-dreams , unpregnant of my cause ,
And can say nothing — no , not for a king
Upon whose property and most dear life
A damned defeat was made . Am I a coward ?
Who calls me villain ? breaks my pate across ?
Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face ?
Tweaks me by the nose ? gives me the lie i’ th’ throat
As deep as to the lungs ? Who does me this ?
Ha ! ’Swounds , I should take it ! For it cannot be
But I am pigeon-livered and lack gall
To make oppression bitter , or ere this
I should have fatted all the region kites
With this slave’s offal . Bloody , bawdy villain !
Remorseless , treacherous , lecherous , kindless
villain !
O vengeance !
Why , what an ass am I ! This is most brave ,
That I , the son of a dear father murdered ,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell ,
Must , like a whore , unpack my heart with words
And fall a-cursing like a very drab ,
A stallion scullion ! Fie upon ’t ! Foh !
About , my brains ! — Hum , I have heard
That guilty creatures sitting at a play
Have , by the very cunning of the scene ,
Been struck so to the soul that presently
They have proclaimed their malefactions ; .
For murder , though it have no tongue , will speak
With most miraculous organ . I’ll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle . I’ll observe his looks ;
I’ll tent him to the quick . If he do blench ,
I know my course . The spirit that I have seen
May be a devil , and the devil hath power
T’ assume a pleasing shape ; yea , and perhaps ,
Out of my weakness and my melancholy ,
As he is very potent with such spirits ,
Abuses me to damn me . I’ll have grounds
More relative than this . The play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King .

Nor do we find him forward to be sounded ,
But with a crafty madness keeps aloof
When we would bring him on to some confession
Of his true state .

Nay , do not think I flatter ,
For what advancement may I hope from thee
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits
To feed and clothe thee ? Why should the poor be
flattered ?
No , let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee
Where thrift may follow fawning . Dost thou hear ?
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice
And could of men distinguish , her election
Hath sealed thee for herself . For thou hast been
As one in suffering all that suffers nothing ,
A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards
Hast ta’en with equal thanks ; and blessed are those
Whose blood and judgment are so well
commeddled
That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger
To sound what stop she please . Give me that man
That is not passion’s slave , and I will wear him
In my heart’s core , ay , in my heart of heart ,
As I do thee . — Something too much of this . —
There is a play tonight before the King .
One scene of it comes near the circumstance
Which I have told thee of my father’s death .
I prithee , when thou seest that act afoot ,
Even with the very comment of thy soul
Observe my uncle . If his occulted guilt
Do not itself unkennel in one speech ,
It is a damnèd ghost that we have seen ,
And my imaginations are as foul
As Vulcan’s stithy . Give him heedful note ,
For I mine eyes will rivet to his face ,
And , after , we will both our judgments join
In censure of his seeming .

O God , your only jig-maker . What should a
man do but be merry ? For look you how cheerfully
my mother looks , and my father died within ’s two
hours .

It is as easy as lying . Govern these ventages
with your fingers and thumb , give it breath with
your mouth , and it will discourse most eloquent
music . Look you , these are the stops .

Why , look you now , how unworthy a thing
you make of me ! You would play upon me , you
would seem to know my stops , you would pluck
out the heart of my mystery , you would sound me
from my lowest note to the top of my compass ;
and there is much music , excellent voice , in this
little organ , yet cannot you make it speak . ’Sblood ,
do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe ?
Call me what instrument you will , though you can
fret me , you cannot play upon me .



God bless you , sir .

By and by is easily said . Leave me ,
friends .

’Tis now the very witching time of night ,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes
out
Contagion to this world . Now could I drink hot
blood
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on . Soft , now to my mother .
O heart , lose not thy nature ; let not ever
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom .
Let me be cruel , not unnatural .
I will speak daggers to her , but use none .
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites :
How in my words somever she be shent ,
To give them seals never , my soul , consent .

Thanks , dear my lord .

O , my offense is rank , it smells to heaven ;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon ’t ,
A brother’s murder . Pray can I not ,
Though inclination be as sharp as will .
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent ,
And , like a man to double business bound ,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin
And both neglect . What if this cursèd hand
Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood ?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow ? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offense ?
And what’s in prayer but this twofold force ,
To be forestallèd ere we come to fall ,
Or pardoned being down ? Then I’ll look up .
My fault is past . But , O , what form of prayer
Can serve my turn ? Forgive me my foul murder ?
That cannot be , since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder :
My crown , mine own ambition , and my queen .
May one be pardoned and retain th’ offense ?
In the corrupted currents of this world ,
Offense’s gilded hand may shove by justice ,
And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law . But ’tis not so above :
There is no shuffling ; there the action lies
In his true nature , and we ourselves compelled ,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults ,
To give in evidence . What then ? What rests ?
Try what repentance can . What can it not ?
Yet what can it , when one cannot repent ?
O wretched state ! O bosom black as death !
O limèd soul , that , struggling to be free ,
Art more engaged ! Help , angels ! Make assay .
Bow , stubborn knees , and heart with strings of steel
Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe .
All may be well .

He will come straight . Look you lay home to him .
Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear
with
And that your Grace hath screened and stood
between
Much heat and him . I’ll silence me even here .
Pray you , be round with him .

O , what a rash and bloody deed is this !

A bloody deed — almost as bad , good mother ,
As kill a king and marry with his brother .

Look here upon this picture and on this ,
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers .
See what a grace was seated on this brow ,
Hyperion’s curls , the front of Jove himself ,
An eye like Mars’ to threaten and command ,
A station like the herald Mercury
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ,
A combination and a form indeed
Where every god did seem to set his seal
To give the world assurance of a man .
This was your husband . Look you now what follows .
Here is your husband , like a mildewed ear
Blasting his wholesome brother . Have you eyes ?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed
And batten on this moor ? Ha ! Have you eyes ?
You cannot call it love , for at your age
The heyday in the blood is tame , it’s humble
And waits upon the judgment ; and what judgment
Would step from this to this ? Sense sure you have ,
Else could you not have motion ; but sure that sense
Is apoplexed ; for madness would not err ,
Nor sense to ecstasy was ne’er so thralled ,
But it reserved some quantity of choice
To serve in such a difference . What devil was ’t
That thus hath cozened you at hoodman-blind ?
Eyes without feeling , feeling without sight ,
Ears without hands or eyes , smelling sans all ,
Or but a sickly part of one true sense
Could not so mope . O shame , where is thy blush ?
Rebellious hell ,
If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones ,
To flaming youth let virtue be as wax
And melt in her own fire . Proclaim no shame
When the compulsive ardor gives the charge ,
Since frost itself as actively doth burn ,
And reason panders will .

Do not forget . This visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose .
But look , amazement on thy mother sits .
O , step between her and her fighting soul .
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works .
Speak to her , Hamlet .

Alas , how is ’t with you ,
That you do bend your eye on vacancy
And with th’ incorporal air do hold discourse ?
Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep ,
And , as the sleeping soldiers in th’ alarm ,
Your bedded hair , like life in excrements ,
Start up and stand an end . O gentle son ,
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience ! Whereon do you look ?

On him , on him ! Look you how pale he glares .
His form and cause conjoined , preaching to stones ,
Would make them capable . Do not
look upon me ,
Lest with this piteous action you convert
My stern effects . Then what I have to do
Will want true color — tears perchance for blood .

Why , look you there , look how it steals away !
My father , in his habit as he lived !
Look where he goes even now out at the portal !

O heavy deed !
It had been so with us , had we been there .
His liberty is full of threats to all —
To you yourself , to us , to everyone .
Alas , how shall this bloody deed be answered ?
It will be laid to us , whose providence
Should have kept short , restrained , and out of haunt
This mad young man . But so much was our love ,
We would not understand what was most fit ,
But , like the owner of a foul disease ,
To keep it from divulging , let it feed
Even on the pith of life . Where is he gone ?

I have sent to seek him and to find the body .
How dangerous is it that this man goes loose !
Yet must not we put the strong law on him .
He’s loved of the distracted multitude ,
Who like not in their judgment , but their eyes ;
And , where ’tis so , th’ offender’s scourge is weighed ,
But never the offense . To bear all smooth and even ,
This sudden sending him away must seem
Deliberate pause . Diseases desperate grown
By desperate appliance are relieved
Or not at all .



How now , what hath befallen ?

Follow him at foot ; tempt him with speed aboard .
Delay it not . I’ll have him hence tonight .
Away , for everything is sealed and done
That else leans on th’ affair . Pray you , make haste .

And England , if my love thou hold’st at aught
( As my great power thereof may give thee sense ,
Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red
After the Danish sword , and thy free awe
Pays homage to us ) , thou mayst not coldly set
Our sovereign process , which imports at full ,
By letters congruing to that effect ,
The present death of Hamlet . Do it , England ,
For like the hectic in my blood he rages ,
And thou must cure me . Till I know ’tis done ,
Howe’er my haps , my joys will were ne’er begin begun .

I’ll be with you straight . Go a little before .

How all occasions do inform against me
And spur my dull revenge . What is a man
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed ? A beast , no more .
Sure He that made us with such large discourse ,
Looking before and after , gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unused . Now whether it be
Bestial oblivion or some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely on th’ event
( A thought which , quartered , hath but one part
wisdom
And ever three parts coward ) , I do not know
Why yet I live to say This thing’s to do ,
Sith I have cause , and will , and strength , and means
To do ’t . Examples gross as Earth earth exhort me :
Witness this army of such mass and charge ,
Led by a delicate and tender prince ,
Whose spirit with divine ambition puffed
Makes mouths at the invisible event ,
Exposing what is mortal and unsure
To all that fortune , death , and danger dare ,
Even for an eggshell . Rightly to be great
Is not to stir without great argument ,
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw
When honor’s at the stake . How stand I , then ,
That have a father killed , a mother stained ,
Excitements of my reason and my blood ,
And let all sleep , while to my shame I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men
That for a fantasy and trick of fame
Go to their graves like beds , fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause ,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the slain ? O , from this time forth
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth !

Alas , look here , my lord .

That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me
bastard ,
Cries cuckold to my father , brands the harlot
Even here between the chaste unsmirchèd brow
Of my true mother .

What is the cause , Laertes ,
That thy rebellion looks so giant-like ? —
Let him go , Gertrude . Do not fear our person .
There’s such divinity doth hedge a king
That treason can but peep to what it would ,
Acts little of his will . — Tell me , Laertes ,
Why thou art thus incensed . — Let him go ,
Gertrude . —
Speak , man .

To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms
And , like the kind life-rend’ring pelican ,
Repast them with my blood .

Horatio , when thou shalt have
overlooked this , give these fellows some means to the
King . They have letters for him . Ere we were two days
old at sea , a pirate of very warlike appointment gave
us chase . Finding ourselves too slow of sail , we put on
a compelled valor , and in the grapple I boarded them .
On the instant , they got clear of our ship ; so I alone
became their prisoner . They have dealt with me like
thieves of mercy , but they knew what they did : I am to
do a good turn for them . Let the King have the letters
I have sent , and repair thou to me with as much speed
as thou wouldst fly death . I have words to speak in
thine ear will make thee dumb ; yet are they much too
light for the bore of the matter . These good fellows
will bring thee where I am . Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
hold their course for England ; of them I have
much to tell thee . Farewell .
He that thou knowest thine ,
Hamlet .
Come , I will give you way for these your letters
And do ’t the speedier that you may direct me
To him from whom you brought them .

O , for two special reasons ,
Which may to you perhaps seem much unsinewed ,
But yet to me they’re strong . The Queen his mother
Lives almost by his looks , and for myself
( My virtue or my plague , be it either which ) ,
She is so conjunctive to my life and soul
That , as the star moves not but in his sphere ,
I could not but by her . The other motive
Why to a public count I might not go
Is the great love the general gender bear him ,
Who , dipping all his faults in their affection ,
Work like the spring that turneth wood to stone ,
Convert his gyves to graces , so that my arrows ,
Too slightly timbered for so loud a wind ,
Would have reverted to my bow again ,
But not where I have aimed them .

I will do ’t ,
And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword .
I bought an unction of a mountebank
So mortal that , but dip a knife in it ,
Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare ,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon , can save the thing from death
That is but scratched withal . I’ll touch my point
With this contagion , that , if I gall him slightly ,
It may be death .

Let’s further think of this ,
Weigh what convenience both of time and means
May fit us to our shape . If this should fail ,
And that our drift look through our bad
performance ,
’Twere better not assayed . Therefore this project
Should have a back or second that might hold
If this did blast in proof . Soft , let me see .
We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings —
I ha ’t !
When in your motion you are hot and dry
( As make your bouts more violent to that end )
And that he calls for drink , I’ll have prepared
him
A chalice for the nonce , whereon but sipping ,
If he by chance escape your venomed stuck ,
Our purpose may hold there . — But stay , what
noise ?

Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this
fashion i’ th’ earth ?

I am satisfied in nature ,
Whose motive in this case should stir me most
To my revenge ; but in my terms of honor
I stand aloof and will no reconcilement
Till by some elder masters of known honor
I have a voice and precedent of peace
To keep my name ungored . But till that time
I do receive your offered love like love
And will not wrong it .

Look to the Queen there , ho !

Heaven make thee free of it . I follow thee . —
I am dead , Horatio . — Wretched queen , adieu . —
You that look pale and tremble at this chance ,
That are but mutes or audience to this act ,
Had I but time ( as this fell sergeant , Death ,
Is strict in his arrest ) , O , I could tell you —
But let it be . — Horatio , I am dead .
Thou livest ; report me and my cause aright
To the unsatisfied .

This quarry cries on havoc . O proud Death ,
What feast is toward in thine eternal cell
That thou so many princes at a shot
So bloodily hast struck ?

Not from his
mouth ,
Had it th’ ability of life to thank you .
He never gave commandment for their death .
But since , so jump upon this bloody question ,
You from the Polack wars , and you from England ,
Are here arrived , give order that these bodies
High on a stage be placed to the view ,
And let me speak to th’ yet unknowing world
How these things came about . So shall you hear
Of carnal , bloody , and unnatural acts ,
Of accidental judgments , casual slaughters ,
Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause ,
And , in this upshot , purposes mistook
Fall’n on th’ inventors’ heads . All this can I
Truly deliver .

So shaken as we are , so wan with care ,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenced in strands afar remote .
No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood .
No more shall trenching war channel her fields ,
Nor bruise her flow’rets with the armèd hoofs
Of hostile paces . Those opposèd eyes ,
Which , like the meteors of a troubled heaven ,
All of one nature , of one substance bred ,
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery ,
Shall now , in mutual well-beseeming ranks ,
March all one way and be no more opposed
Against acquaintance , kindred , and allies .
The edge of war , like an ill-sheathèd knife ,
No more shall cut his master . Therefore , friends ,
As far as to the sepulcher of Christ —
Whose soldier now , under whose blessèd cross
We are impressèd and engaged to fight —
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy ,
Whose arms were molded in their mothers’ womb
To chase these pagans in those holy fields
Over whose acres walked those blessèd feet
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed
For our advantage on the bitter cross .
But this our purpose now is twelve month old ,
And bootless ’tis to tell you we will go .
Therefor we meet not now . Then let me hear
Of you , my gentle cousin Westmoreland ,
What yesternight our council did decree
In forwarding this dear expedience .

This matched with other did , my gracious lord .
For more uneven and unwelcome news
Came from the north , and thus it did import :
On Holy-rood Day the gallant Hotspur there ,
Young Harry Percy , and brave Archibald ,
That ever valiant and approvèd Scot ,
At Holmedon met , where they did spend
A sad and bloody hour —
As by discharge of their artillery
And shape of likelihood the news was told ,
For he that brought them , in the very heat
And pride of their contention did take horse ,
Uncertain of the issue any way .

Here is a dear , a true-industrious friend ,
Sir Walter Blunt , new lighted from his horse ,
Stained with the variation of each soil
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours ,
And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news .
The Earl of Douglas is discomfited ;
Ten thousand bold Scots , two-and-twenty knights ,
Balked in their own blood , did Sir Walter see
On Holmedon’s plains . Of prisoners Hotspur took
Mordake , Earl of Fife and eldest son
To beaten Douglas , and the Earl of Atholl ,
Of Murray , Angus , and Menteith .
And is not this an honorable spoil ?
A gallant prize ? Ha , cousin , is it not ?

Yea , there thou mak’st me sad , and mak’st me sin
In envy that my Lord Northumberland
Should be the father to so blest a son ,
A son who is the theme of Honor’s tongue ,
Amongst a grove the very straightest plant ,
Who is sweet Fortune’s minion and her pride ;
Whilst I , by looking on the praise of him ,
See riot and dishonor stain the brow
Of my young Harry . O , that it could be proved
That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged
In cradle-clothes our children where they lay ,
And called mine Percy , his Plantagenet !
Then would I have his Harry , and he mine .
But let him from my thoughts . What think you , coz ,
Of this young Percy’s pride ? The prisoners
Which he in this adventure hath surprised
To his own use he keeps , and sends me word
I shall have none but Mordake , Earl of Fife .

Yea , for obtaining of suits , whereof the hangman
hath no lean wardrobe . ’Sblood , I am as
melancholy as a gib cat or a lugged bear .

There’s neither honesty , manhood , nor
good fellowship in thee , nor thou cam’st not of
the blood royal , if thou darest not stand for ten
shillings .

I know you all , and will awhile uphold
The unyoked humor of your idleness .
Yet herein will I imitate the sun ,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world ,
That , when he please again to be himself ,
Being wanted , he may be more wondered at
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
Of vapors that did seem to strangle him .
If all the year were playing holidays ,
To sport would be as tedious as to work ,
But when they seldom come , they wished-for come ,
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents .
So when this loose behavior I throw off
And pay the debt I never promisèd ,
By how much better than my word I am ,
By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes ;
And , like bright metal on a sullen ground ,
My reformation , glitt’ring o’er my fault ,
Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes
Than that which hath no foil to set it off .
I’ll so offend to make offense a skill ,
Redeeming time when men think least I will .

My blood hath been too cold and temperate ,
Unapt to stir at these indignities ,
And you have found me , for accordingly
You tread upon my patience . But be sure
I will from henceforth rather be myself ,
Mighty and to be feared , than my condition ,
Which hath been smooth as oil , soft as young down ,
And therefore lost that title of respect
Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud .

Revolted Mortimer !
He never did fall off , my sovereign liege ,
But by the chance of war . To prove that true
Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds ,
Those mouthèd wounds , which valiantly he took
When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank
In single opposition hand to hand
He did confound the best part of an hour
In changing hardiment with great Glendower .
Three times they breathed , and three times did they
drink ,
Upon agreement , of swift Severn’s flood ,
Who then , affrighted with their bloody looks ,
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank ,
Blood-stainèd with these valiant combatants .
Never did bare and rotten policy
Color her working with such deadly wounds ,
Nor never could the noble Mortimer
Receive so many , and all willingly .
Then let not him be slandered with revolt .

Speak of Mortimer ?
Zounds , I will speak of him , and let my soul
Want mercy if I do not join with him .
Yea , on his part I’ll empty all these veins
And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust ,
But I will lift the downtrod Mortimer
As high in the air as this unthankful king ,
As this ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke .

He will forsooth have all my prisoners ,
And when I urged the ransom once again
Of my wife’s brother , then his cheek looked pale ,
And on my face he turned an eye of death ,
Trembling even at the name of Mortimer .

I cannot blame him . Was not he proclaimed
By Richard , that dead is , the next of blood ?

Nay then , I cannot blame his cousin king
That wished him on the barren mountains starve .
But shall it be that you that set the crown
Upon the head of this forgetful man
And for his sake wear the detested blot
Of murderous subornation — shall it be
That you a world of curses undergo ,
Being the agents or base second means ,
The cords , the ladder , or the hangman rather ?
O , pardon me that I descend so low
To show the line and the predicament
Wherein you range under this subtle king .
Shall it for shame be spoken in these days ,
Or fill up chronicles in time to come ,
That men of your nobility and power
Did gage them both in an unjust behalf
( As both of you , God pardon it , have done )
To put down Richard , that sweet lovely rose ,
And plant this thorn , this canker , Bolingbroke ?
And shall it in more shame be further spoken
That you are fooled , discarded , and shook off
By him for whom these shames you underwent ?
No , yet time serves wherein you may redeem
Your banished honors and restore yourselves
Into the good thoughts of the world again ,
Revenge the jeering and disdained contempt
Of this proud king , who studies day and night
To answer all the debt he owes to you
Even with the bloody payment of your deaths .
Therefore I say —

If he fall in , good night , or sink or swim !
Send danger from the east unto the west ,
So honor cross it from the north to south ,
And let them grapple . O , the blood more stirs
To rouse a lion than to start a hare !

Why , look you , I am whipped and scourged with
rods ,
Nettled and stung with pismires , when I hear
Of this vile politician , Bolingbroke .
In Richard’s time — what do you call the place ?
A plague upon it ! It is in Gloucestershire .
’Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept ,
His uncle York , where I first bowed my knee
Unto this king of smiles , this Bolingbroke .
’Sblood , when you and he came back from
Ravenspurgh .

You say true .
Why , what a candy deal of courtesy
This fawning greyhound then did proffer me :
Look when his infant fortune came to age ,
And gentle Harry Percy , and kind cousin .
O , the devil take such cozeners ! — God forgive me !
Good uncle , tell your tale . I have done .

And ’tis no little reason bids us speed
To save our heads by raising of a head ,
For bear ourselves as even as we can ,
The King will always think him in our debt ,
And think we think ourselves unsatisfied ,
Till he hath found a time to pay us home .
And see already how he doth begin
To make us strangers to his looks of love .

What talkest thou to me of the hangman ? If
I hang , I’ll make a fat pair of gallows , for if I hang ,
old Sir John hangs with me , and thou knowest he is
no starveling . Tut , there are other Troyans that
thou dream’st not of , the which for sport sake are
content to do the profession some grace , that
would , if matters should be looked into , for their
own credit sake make all whole . I am joined with no
foot-land-rakers , no long-staff sixpenny strikers ,
none of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms ,
but with nobility and tranquillity , burgomasters
and great oneyers , such as can hold in , such
as will strike sooner than speak , and speak sooner
than drink , and drink sooner than pray , and yet ,
zounds , I lie , for they pray continually to their saint
the commonwealth , or rather not pray to her but
prey on her , for they ride up and down on her and
make her their boots .

Have you any levers to lift me up again being
down ? ’Sblood , I’ll not bear my own flesh so
far afoot again for all the coin in thy father’s Exchequer .
What a plague mean you to colt me
thus ?

O my good lord , why are you thus alone ?
For what offense have I this fortnight been
A banished woman from my Harry’s bed ?
Tell me , sweet lord , what is ’t that takes from thee
Thy stomach , pleasure , and thy golden sleep ?
Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth
And start so often when thou sit’st alone ?
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks
And given my treasures and my rights of thee
To thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy ?
In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watched ,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars ,
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed ,
Cry Courage ! To the field ! And thou hast talked
Of sallies and retires , of trenches , tents ,
Of palisadoes , frontiers , parapets ,
Of basilisks , of cannon , culverin ,
Of prisoners’ ransom , and of soldiers slain ,
And all the currents of a heady fight .
Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war ,
And thus hath so bestirred thee in thy sleep ,
That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow
Like bubbles in a late-disturbèd stream ,
And in thy face strange motions have appeared ,
Such as we see when men restrain their breath
On some great sudden hest . O , what portents are
these ?
Some heavy business hath my lord in hand ,
And I must know it , else he loves me not .

Away !
Away , you trifler . Love , I love thee not .
I care not for thee , Kate . This is no world
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips .
We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns ,
And pass them current too . — Gods me , my horse ! —
What say’st thou , Kate ? What wouldst thou have
with me ?

Anon , anon , sir . — Look down into the Pomgarnet ,
Ralph .

Why then , your brown bastard is your only
drink , for look you , Francis , your white canvas
doublet will sully . In Barbary , sir , it cannot come to
so much .

What , stand’st thou still and hear’st such a
calling ? Look to the guests within .
My lord , old Sir John with half a dozen more are at
the door . Shall I let them in ?

’Sblood , you starveling , you elfskin , you
dried neat’s tongue , you bull’s pizzle , you stockfish !
O , for breath to utter what is like thee ! You tailor’s
yard , you sheath , you bowcase , you vile standing
tuck —

Yea , and to tickle our noses with speargrass
to make them bleed , and then to beslubber our
garments with it , and swear it was the blood of true
men . I did that I did not this seven year before : I
blushed to hear his monstrous devices .

By the Mass , thou sayest true . It is like we
shall have good trading that way . But tell me , Hal ,
art not thou horrible afeard ? Thou being heir
apparent , could the world pick thee out three such
enemies again as that fiend Douglas , that spirit
Percy , and that devil Glendower ? Art thou not
horribly afraid ? Doth not thy blood thrill at it ?

Well , an the fire of grace be not quite out of
thee , now shalt thou be moved . — Give me a cup of
sack to make my eyes look red , that it may be
thought I have wept , for I must speak in passion ,
and I will do it in King Cambyses’ vein .

For God’s sake , lords , convey my tristful queen ,
For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes .

A goodly portly man , i’ faith , and a
corpulent ; of a cheerful look , a pleasing eye , and a
most noble carriage , and , as I think , his age some
fifty , or , by ’r Lady , inclining to threescore ; and now
I remember me , his name is Falstaff . If that man
should be lewdly given , he deceiveth me , for , Harry ,
I see virtue in his looks . If then the tree may be
known by the fruit , as the fruit by the tree , then
peremptorily I speak it : there is virtue in that
Falstaff ; him keep with , the rest banish . And tell me
now , thou naughty varlet , tell me where hast thou
been this month ?

’Sblood , my lord , they are false .
— Nay , I’ll tickle you for a young prince , i’ faith .

Swearest thou ? Ungracious boy ,
henceforth ne’er look on me . Thou art violently
carried away from grace . There is a devil haunts
thee in the likeness of an old fat man . A tun of man
is thy companion . Why dost thou converse with that
trunk of humors , that bolting-hutch of beastliness ,
that swollen parcel of dropsies , that huge bombard
of sack , that stuffed cloakbag of guts , that roasted
Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly , that
reverend Vice , that gray iniquity , that father ruffian ,
that vanity in years ? Wherein is he good , but to taste
sack and drink it ? Wherein neat and cleanly but to
carve a capon and eat it ? Wherein cunning but in
craft ? Wherein crafty but in villainy ? Wherein villainous
but in all things ? Wherein worthy but in
nothing ?

No , here it is . Sit , cousin Percy ,
Sit , good cousin Hotspur , for by that name
As oft as Lancaster doth speak of you
His cheek looks pale , and with a rising sigh
He wisheth you in heaven .

Methinks my moiety , north from Burton here ,
In quantity equals not one of yours .
See how this river comes me cranking in
And cuts me from the best of all my land
A huge half-moon , a monstrous cantle out .
I’ll have the current in this place dammed up ,
And here the smug and silver Trent shall run
In a new channel , fair and evenly .
It shall not wind with such a deep indent
To rob me of so rich a bottom here .

In faith , my lord , you are too willful-blame ,
And , since your coming hither , have done enough
To put him quite besides his patience .
You must needs learn , lord , to amend this fault .
Though sometimes it show greatness , courage ,
blood —
And that’s the dearest grace it renders you —
Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage ,
Defect of manners , want of government ,
Pride , haughtiness , opinion , and disdain ,
The least of which , haunting a nobleman ,
Loseth men’s hearts and leaves behind a stain
Upon the beauty of all parts besides ,
Beguiling them of commendation .

I understand thy looks . That pretty Welsh
Which thou pourest down from these swelling
heavens
I am too perfect in , and but for shame
In such a parley should I answer thee .

I understand thy kisses , and thou mine ,
And that’s a feeling disputation ;
But I will never be a truant , love ,
Till I have learned thy language ; for thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penned ,
Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bower ,
With ravishing division , to her lute .

She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down
And rest your gentle head upon her lap ,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you ,
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep ,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness ,
Making such difference ’twixt wake and sleep
As is the difference betwixt day and night
The hour before the heavenly harnessed team
Begins his golden progress in the east .

Lords , give us leave ; the Prince of Wales and I
Must have some private conference , but be near at
hand ,
For we shall presently have need of you .

I know not whether God will have it so
For some displeasing service I have done ,
That , in His secret doom , out of my blood
He’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me .
But thou dost in thy passages of life
Make me believe that thou art only marked
For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven
To punish my mistreadings . Tell me else ,
Could such inordinate and low desires ,
Such poor , such bare , such lewd , such mean
attempts ,
Such barren pleasures , rude society
As thou art matched withal , and grafted to ,
Accompany the greatness of thy blood ,
And hold their level with thy princely heart ?

God pardon thee . Yet let me wonder , Harry ,
At thy affections , which do hold a wing
Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors .
Thy place in council thou hast rudely lost ,
Which by thy younger brother is supplied ,
And art almost an alien to the hearts
Of all the court and princes of my blood .
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruined , and the soul of every man
Prophetically do forethink thy fall .
Had I so lavish of my presence been ,
So common-hackneyed in the eyes of men ,
So stale and cheap to vulgar company ,
Opinion , that did help me to the crown ,
Had still kept loyal to possession
And left me in reputeless banishment ,
A fellow of no mark nor likelihood .
By being seldom seen , I could not stir
But like a comet I was wondered at ,
That men would tell their children This is he .
Others would say Where ? Which is Bolingbroke ?
And then I stole all courtesy from heaven ,
And dressed myself in such humility
That I did pluck allegiance from men’s hearts ,
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths ,
Even in the presence of the crownèd king .
Thus did I keep my person fresh and new ,
My presence , like a robe pontifical ,
Ne’er seen but wondered at , and so my state ,
Seldom but sumptuous , showed like a feast
And won by rareness such solemnity .
The skipping king , he ambled up and down
With shallow jesters and rash bavin wits ,
Soon kindled and soon burnt ; carded his state ,
Mingled his royalty with cap’ring fools ,
Had his great name profanèd with their scorns ,
And gave his countenance , against his name ,
To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push
Of every beardless vain comparative ;
Grew a companion to the common streets ,
Enfeoffed himself to popularity ,
That , being daily swallowed by men’s eyes ,
They surfeited with honey and began
To loathe the taste of sweetness , whereof a little
More than a little is by much too much .
So , when he had occasion to be seen ,
He was but as the cuckoo is in June ,
Heard , not regarded ; seen , but with such eyes
As , sick and blunted with community ,
Afford no extraordinary gaze
Such as is bent on sunlike majesty
When it shines seldom in admiring eyes ,
But rather drowsed and hung their eyelids down ,
Slept in his face , and rendered such aspect
As cloudy men use to their adversaries ,
Being with his presence glutted , gorged , and full .
And in that very line , Harry , standest thou ,
For thou hast lost thy princely privilege
With vile participation . Not an eye
But is aweary of thy common sight ,
Save mine , which hath desired to see thee more ,
Which now doth that I would not have it do ,
Make blind itself with foolish tenderness .

For all the world
As thou art to this hour was Richard then
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh ,
And even as I was then is Percy now .
Now , by my scepter , and my soul to boot ,
He hath more worthy interest to the state
Than thou , the shadow of succession .
For of no right , nor color like to right ,
He doth fill fields with harness in the realm ,
Turns head against the lion’s armèd jaws ,
And , being no more in debt to years than thou ,
Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on
To bloody battles and to bruising arms .
What never-dying honor hath he got
Against renownèd Douglas , whose high deeds ,
Whose hot incursions and great name in arms ,
Holds from all soldiers chief majority
And military title capital
Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ .
Thrice hath this Hotspur , Mars in swaddling
clothes ,
This infant warrior , in his enterprises
Discomfited great Douglas , ta’en him once ,
Enlargèd him , and made a friend of him ,
To fill the mouth of deep defiance up
And shake the peace and safety of our throne .
And what say you to this ? Percy , Northumberland ,
The Archbishop’s Grace of York , Douglas ,
Mortimer ,
Capitulate against us and are up .
But wherefore do I tell these news to thee ?
Why , Harry , do I tell thee of my foes ,
Which art my nearest and dearest enemy ?
Thou that art like enough , through vassal fear ,
Base inclination , and the start of spleen ,
To fight against me under Percy’s pay ,
To dog his heels , and curtsy at his frowns ,
To show how much thou art degenerate .

Do not think so . You shall not find it so .
And God forgive them that so much have swayed
Your Majesty’s good thoughts away from me .
I will redeem all this on Percy’s head ,
And , in the closing of some glorious day ,
Be bold to tell you that I am your son ,
When I will wear a garment all of blood
And stain my favors in a bloody mask ,
Which , washed away , shall scour my shame with it .
And that shall be the day , whene’er it lights ,
That this same child of honor and renown ,
This gallant Hotspur , this all-praisèd knight ,
And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet .
For every honor sitting on his helm ,
Would they were multitudes , and on my head
My shames redoubled ! For the time will come
That I shall make this northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities .
Percy is but my factor , good my lord ,
To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf .
And I will call him to so strict account
That he shall render every glory up ,
Yea , even the slightest worship of his time ,
Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart .
This in the name of God I promise here ,
The which if He be pleased I shall perform ,
I do beseech your Majesty may salve
The long-grown wounds of my intemperance .
If not , the end of life cancels all bands ,
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow .

A hundred thousand rebels die in this .
Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein .



How now , good Blunt ? Thy looks are full of speed .

Bardolph , am I not fallen away vilely since
this last action ? Do I not bate ? Do I not dwindle ?
Why , my skin hangs about me like an old lady’s
loose gown . I am withered like an old applejohn .
Well , I’ll repent , and that suddenly , while I am in
some liking . I shall be out of heart shortly , and then
I shall have no strength to repent . An I have not
forgotten what the inside of a church is made of , I
am a peppercorn , a brewer’s horse . The inside of a
church ! Company , villainous company , hath been
the spoil of me .

’Sblood , I would my face were in your
belly !

How , poor ? Look upon his face . What call
you rich ? Let them coin his nose . Let them coin his
cheeks . I’ll not pay a denier . What , will you make a
younker of me ? Shall I not take mine ease in mine
inn but I shall have my pocket picked ? I have lost a
seal ring of my grandfather’s worth forty mark .

How ? The Prince is a jack , a sneak-up .
’Sblood , an he were here , I would cudgel him like a
dog if he would say so .



How now , lad , is the wind in that door , i’ faith ? Must
we all march ?

Hostess , I forgive thee . Go make ready
breakfast , love thy husband , look to thy servants ,
cherish thy guests . Thou shalt find me tractable
to any honest reason . Thou seest I am pacified still .
Nay , prithee , begone . Now , Hal , to
the news at court . For the robbery , lad , how is that
answered ?

Sick now ? Droop now ? This sickness doth infect
The very lifeblood of our enterprise .
’Tis catching hither , even to our camp .
He writes me here that inward sickness —
And that his friends by deputation
Could not so soon be drawn , nor did he think it
meet
To lay so dangerous and dear a trust
On any soul removed but on his own ;
Yet doth he give us bold advertisement
That with our small conjunction we should on
To see how fortune is disposed to us ,
For , as he writes , there is no quailing now ,
Because the King is certainly possessed
Of all our purposes . What say you to it ?

A rendezvous , a home to fly unto ,
If that the devil and mischance look big
Upon the maidenhead of our affairs .

But yet I would your father had been here .
The quality and hair of our attempt
Brooks no division . It will be thought
By some that know not why he is away
That wisdom , loyalty , and mere dislike
Of our proceedings kept the Earl from hence .
And think how such an apprehension
May turn the tide of fearful faction
And breed a kind of question in our cause .
For well you know , we of the off’ring side
Must keep aloof from strict arbitrament ,
And stop all sight-holes , every loop from whence
The eye of reason may pry in upon us .
This absence of your father’s draws a curtain
That shows the ignorant a kind of fear
Before not dreamt of .

No more , no more ! Worse than the sun in March
This praise doth nourish agues . Let them come .
They come like sacrifices in their trim ,
And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war
All hot and bleeding will we offer them .
The mailèd Mars shall on his altar sit
Up to the ears in blood . I am on fire
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh
And yet not ours . Come , let me taste my horse ,
Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales .
Harry to Harry shall , hot horse to horse ,
Meet and ne’er part till one drop down a corse .
O , that Glendower were come !

Faith , Sir John , ’tis more than time
that I were there and you too , but my powers are
there already . The King , I can tell you , looks for us
all . We must away all night .

Why say you so ? Looks he not for supply ?

The King is kind , and well we know the King
Knows at what time to promise , when to pay .
My father and my uncle and myself
Did give him that same royalty he wears ,
And when he was not six-and-twenty strong ,
Sick in the world’s regard , wretched and low ,
A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home ,
My father gave him welcome to the shore ;
And when he heard him swear and vow to God
He came but to be Duke of Lancaster ,
To sue his livery , and beg his peace
With tears of innocency and terms of zeal ,
My father , in kind heart and pity moved ,
Swore him assistance and performed it too .
Now when the lords and barons of the realm
Perceived Northumberland did lean to him ,
The more and less came in with cap and knee ,
Met him in boroughs , cities , villages ,
Attended him on bridges , stood in lanes ,
Laid gifts before him , proffered him their oaths ,
Gave him their heirs as pages , followed him
Even at the heels in golden multitudes .
He presently , as greatness knows itself ,
Steps me a little higher than his vow
Made to my father while his blood was poor
Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh ,
And now forsooth takes on him to reform
Some certain edicts and some strait decrees
That lie too heavy on the commonwealth ,
Cries out upon abuses , seems to weep
Over his country’s wrongs , and by this face ,
This seeming brow of justice , did he win
The hearts of all that he did angle for ,
Proceeded further — cut me off the heads
Of all the favorites that the absent king
In deputation left behind him here
When he was personal in the Irish war .

How bloodily the sun begins to peer
Above yon bulky hill . The day looks pale
At his distemp’rature .

It pleased your Majesty to turn your looks
Of favor from myself and all our house ;
And yet I must remember you , my lord ,
We were the first and dearest of your friends .
For you my staff of office did I break
In Richard’s time , and posted day and night
To meet you on the way and kiss your hand
When yet you were in place and in account
Nothing so strong and fortunate as I .
It was myself , my brother , and his son
That brought you home and boldly did outdare
The dangers of the time . You swore to us ,
And you did swear that oath at Doncaster ,
That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state ,
Nor claim no further than your new-fall’n right ,
The seat of Gaunt , dukedom of Lancaster .
To this we swore our aid . But in short space
It rained down fortune show’ring on your head ,
And such a flood of greatness fell on you —
What with our help , what with the absent king ,
What with the injuries of a wanton time ,
The seeming sufferances that you had borne ,
And the contrarious winds that held the King
So long in his unlucky Irish wars
That all in England did repute him dead —
And from this swarm of fair advantages
You took occasion to be quickly wooed
To gripe the general sway into your hand ,
Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster ;
And being fed by us , you used us so
As that ungentle gull , the cuckoo’s bird ,
Useth the sparrow — did oppress our nest ,
Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk
That even our love durst not come near your sight
For fear of swallowing ; but with nimble wing
We were enforced for safety sake to fly
Out of your sight and raise this present head ,
Whereby we stand opposèd by such means
As you yourself have forged against yourself
By unkind usage , dangerous countenance ,
And violation of all faith and troth
Sworn to us in your younger enterprise .

In both your armies there is many a soul
Shall pay full dearly for this encounter
If once they join in trial . Tell your nephew ,
The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world
In praise of Henry Percy . By my hopes ,
This present enterprise set off his head ,
I do not think a braver gentleman ,
More active-valiant , or more valiant-young ,
More daring or more bold , is now alive
To grace this latter age with noble deeds .
For my part , I may speak it to my shame ,
I have a truant been to chivalry ,
And so I hear he doth account me too .
Yet this before my father’s majesty :
I am content that he shall take the odds
Of his great name and estimation ,
And will , to save the blood on either side ,
Try fortune with him in a single fight .

Then are we all undone .
It is not possible , it cannot be
The King should keep his word in loving us .
He will suspect us still and find a time
To punish this offense in other faults .
Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of
eyes ,
For treason is but trusted like the fox ,
Who , never so tame , so cherished and locked up ,
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors .
Look how we can , or sad or merrily ,
Interpretation will misquote our looks ,
And we shall feed like oxen at a stall ,
The better cherished still the nearer death .
My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot ;
It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood ,
And an adopted name of privilege —
A harebrained Hotspur governed by a spleen .
All his offenses live upon my head
And on his father’s . We did train him on ,
And his corruption being ta’en from us ,
We as the spring of all shall pay for all .
Therefore , good cousin , let not Harry know
In any case the offer of the King .

Cousin , I think thou art enamorèd
On his follies . Never did I hear
Of any prince so wild a liberty .
But be he as he will , yet once ere night
I will embrace him with a soldier’s arm
That he shall shrink under my courtesy . —
Arm , arm with speed , and , fellows , soldiers ,
friends ,
Better consider what you have to do
Than I that have not well the gift of tongue
Can lift your blood up with persuasion .

I thank him that he cuts me from my tale ,
For I profess not talking . Only this :
Let each man do his best . And here draw I a sword ,
Whose temper I intend to stain
With the best blood that I can meet withal
In the adventure of this perilous day .
Now , Esperance ! Percy ! And set on .
Sound all the lofty instruments of war ,
And by that music let us all embrace ,
For , heaven to Earth earth , some of us never shall
A second time do such a courtesy .

Well , if Percy be alive , I’ll pierce him . If he do
come in my way , so ; if he do not , if I come in his
willingly , let him make a carbonado of me . I like not
such grinning honor as Sir Walter hath . Give me
life , which , if I can save , so : if not , honor comes
unlooked for , and there’s an end .

I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point
With lustier maintenance than I did look for
Of such an ungrown warrior .

For worms , brave Percy . Fare thee well , great heart .
Ill-weaved ambition , how much art thou shrunk !
When that this body did contain a spirit ,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound ,
But now two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough . This earth that bears thee dead
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman .
If thou wert sensible of courtesy ,
I should not make so dear a show of zeal .
But let my favors hide thy mangled face ;

And even in thy behalf I’ll thank myself
For doing these fair rites of tenderness .
Adieu , and take thy praise with thee to heaven .
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave ,
But not remembered in thy epitaph .

What , old acquaintance , could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life ? Poor Jack , farewell .
I could have better spared a better man .
O , I should have a heavy miss of thee
If I were much in love with vanity .
Death hath not struck so fat a deer today ,
Though many dearer in this bloody fray .
Emboweled will I see thee by and by ;
Till then in blood by noble Percy lie .

Emboweled ? If thou embowel me today , I’ll
give you leave to powder me and eat me too
tomorrow . ’Sblood , ’twas time to counterfeit , or
that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot
too . Counterfeit ? I lie . I am no counterfeit . To die is
to be a counterfeit , for he is but the counterfeit of a
man who hath not the life of a man ; but to counterfeit
dying when a man thereby liveth is to be no
counterfeit , but the true and perfect image of life
indeed . The better part of valor is discretion , in the
which better part I have saved my life . Zounds , I am
afraid of this gunpowder Percy , though he be dead .
How if he should counterfeit too , and rise ? By my
faith , I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit .
Therefore I’ll make him sure , yea , and I’ll swear
I killed him . Why may not he rise as well as I ?
Nothing confutes me but eyes , and nobody sees me .
Therefore , sirrah , with a new wound
in your thigh , come you along with me .

No , that’s certain . I am not a double man .
But if I be not Jack Falstaff , then am I a jack . There
is Percy . If your father will do me any honor , so ; if
not , let him kill the next Percy himself . I look to be
either earl or duke , I can assure you .

Open your ears , for which of you will stop
The vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks ?
I , from the orient to the drooping west ,
Making the wind my post-horse , still unfold
The acts commencèd on this ball of earth .
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride ,
The which in every language I pronounce ,
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports .
I speak of peace while covert enmity
Under the smile of safety wounds the world .
And who but Rumor , who but only I ,
Make fearful musters and prepared defense
Whiles the big year , swoll’n with some other grief ,
Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war ,
And no such matter ? Rumor is a pipe
Blown by surmises , jealousies , conjectures ,
And of so easy and so plain a stop
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads ,
The still-discordant wav’ring multitude ,
Can play upon it . But what need I thus
My well-known body to anatomize
Among my household ? Why is Rumor here ?
I run before King Harry’s victory ,
Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury
Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops ,
Quenching the flame of bold rebellion
Even with the rebels’ blood . But what mean I
To speak so true at first ? My office is
To noise abroad that Harry Monmouth fell
Under the wrath of noble Hotspur’s sword ,
And that the King before the Douglas’ rage
Stooped his anointed head as low as death .
This have I rumored through the peasant towns
Between that royal field of Shrewsbury
And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone ,
Where Hotspur’s father , old Northumberland ,
Lies crafty-sick . The posts come tiring on ,
And not a man of them brings other news
Than they have learnt of me . From Rumor’s
tongues
They bring smooth comforts false , worse than
true wrongs .

What news , Lord Bardolph ? Every minute now
Should be the father of some stratagem .
The times are wild . Contention , like a horse
Full of high feeding , madly hath broke loose
And bears down all before him .

My lord , Sir John Umfrevile turned me back
With joyful tidings and , being better horsed ,
Outrode me . After him came spurring hard
A gentleman , almost forspent with speed ,
That stopped by me to breathe his bloodied horse .
He asked the way to Chester , and of him
I did demand what news from Shrewsbury .
He told me that rebellion had bad luck
And that young Harry Percy’s spur was cold .
With that he gave his able horse the head
And , bending forward , struck his armèd heels
Against the panting sides of his poor jade
Up to the rowel-head , and starting so
He seemed in running to devour the way ,
Staying no longer question .

Who , he ?
He was some hilding fellow that had stol’n
The horse he rode on and , upon my life ,
Spoke at a venture .



Look , here comes more news .

Yea , this man’s brow , like to a title leaf ,
Foretells the nature of a tragic volume .
So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood
Hath left a witnessed usurpation . —
Say , Morton , didst thou come from Shrewsbury ?

How doth my son and brother ?
Thou tremblest , and the whiteness in thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand .
Even such a man , so faint , so spiritless ,
So dull , so dead in look , so woebegone ,
Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night
And would have told him half his Troy was burnt ;
But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue ,
And I my Percy’s death ere thou report’st it .
This thou wouldst say : Your son did thus and thus ;
Your brother thus ; so fought the noble Douglas —
Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds .
But in the end , to stop my ear indeed ,
Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise ,
Ending with Brother , son , and all are dead .

I am sorry I should force you to believe
That which I would to God I had not seen ,
But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state ,
Rend’ring faint quittance , wearied and outbreathed ,
To Harry Monmouth , whose swift wrath beat down
The never-daunted Percy to the earth ,
From whence with life he never more sprung up .
In few , his death , whose spirit lent a fire
Even to the dullest peasant in his camp ,
Being bruited once , took fire and heat away
From the best-tempered courage in his troops ;
For from his mettle was his party steeled ,
Which , once in him abated , all the rest
Turned on themselves , like dull and heavy lead .
And as the thing that’s heavy in itself
Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed ,
So did our men , heavy in Hotspur’s loss ,
Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear
That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim
Than did our soldiers , aiming at their safety ,
Fly from the field . Then was that noble Worcester
So soon ta’en prisoner ; and that furious Scot ,
The bloody Douglas , whose well-laboring sword
Had three times slain th’ appearance of the King ,
Gan vail his stomach and did grace the shame
Of those that turned their backs and in his flight ,
Stumbling in fear , was took . The sum of all
Is that the King hath won and hath sent out
A speedy power to encounter you , my lord ,
Under the conduct of young Lancaster
And Westmoreland . This is the news at full .

For this I shall have time enough to mourn .
In poison there is physic , and these news ,
Having been well , that would have made me sick ,
Being sick , have in some measure made me well .
And as the wretch whose fever-weakened joints ,
Like strengthless hinges , buckle under life ,
Impatient of his fit , breaks like a fire
Out of his keeper’s arms , even so my limbs ,
Weakened with grief , being now enraged with
grief ,
Are thrice themselves . Hence therefore , thou
nice crutch .
A scaly gauntlet now with joints of steel
Must glove this hand . And hence , thou sickly
coif .
Thou art a guard too wanton for the head
Which princes , fleshed with conquest , aim to hit .
Now bind my brows with iron , and approach
The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare bring
To frown upon th’ enraged Northumberland .
Let heaven kiss Earth earth ! Now let not Nature’s hand
Keep the wild flood confined . Let order die ,
And let this world no longer be a stage
To feed contention in a lingering act ;
But let one spirit of the firstborn Cain
Reign in all bosoms , that , each heart being set
On bloody courses , the rude scene may end ,
And darkness be the burier of the dead .

’Tis more than time . — And , my most noble lord ,
I hear for certain , and dare speak the truth :
The gentle Archbishop of York is up
With well-appointed powers . He is a man
Who with a double surety binds his followers .
My lord your son had only but the corpse ,
But shadows and the shows of men , to fight ;
For that same word rebellion did divide
The action of their bodies from their souls ,
And they did fight with queasiness , constrained ,
As men drink potions , that their weapons only
Seemed on our side . But , for their spirits and
souls ,
This word rebellion , it had froze them up
As fish are in a pond . But now the Bishop
Turns insurrection to religion .
Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts ,
He’s followed both with body and with mind ,
And doth enlarge his rising with the blood
Of fair King Richard , scraped from Pomfret
stones ;
Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause ;
Tells them he doth bestride a bleeding land ,
Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke ;
And more and less do flock to follow him .

Let him be damned like the glutton ! Pray
God his tongue be hotter ! A whoreson Achitophel , a
rascally yea-forsooth knave , to bear a gentleman in
hand and then stand upon security ! The whoreson
smoothy-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes
and bunches of keys at their girdles ; and if a man is
through with them in honest taking up , then they
must stand upon security . I had as lief they would
put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to stop it with
security . I looked he should have sent me two-and-twenty
yards of satin , as I am a true knight , and
he sends me security . Well , he may sleep in
security , for he hath the horn of abundance , and the
lightness of his wife shines through it , and yet
cannot he see though he have his own lantern to
light him . Where’s Bardolph ?

This apoplexy , as I take it , is a kind of
lethargy , an ’t please your Lordship , a kind of
sleeping in the blood , a whoreson tingling .

Not so , my lord . Your ill angel is light , but I
hope he that looks upon me will take me without
weighing . And yet in some respects I grant I cannot
go . I cannot tell . Virtue is of so little regard in these
costermongers’ times that true valor is turned bearherd ;
pregnancy is made a tapster , and hath his
quick wit wasted in giving reckonings . All the other
gifts appurtenant to man , as the malice of this age
shapes them , are not worth a gooseberry . You that
are old consider not the capacities of us that are
young . You do measure the heat of our livers with
the bitterness of your galls , and we that are in the
vaward of our youth , I must confess , are wags too .

Yea , I thank your pretty sweet wit for it . But
look you pray , all you that kiss my Lady Peace at
home , that our armies join not in a hot day , for , by
the Lord , I take but two shirts out with me , and I
mean not to sweat extraordinarily . If it be a hot day
and I brandish anything but a bottle , I would I
might never spit white again . There is not a dangerous
action can peep out his head but I am thrust
upon it . Well , I cannot last ever . But it was always
yet the trick of our English nation , if they have a
good thing , to make it too common . If you will
needs say I am an old man , you should give me rest .
I would to God my name were not so terrible to the
enemy as it is . I were better to be eaten to death
with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with
perpetual motion .

I well allow the occasion of our arms ,
But gladly would be better satisfied
How in our means we should advance ourselves
To look with forehead bold and big enough
Upon the power and puissance of the King .

Yea , marry , there’s the point .
But if without him we be thought too feeble ,
My judgment is we should not step too far
Till we had his assistance by the hand .
For in a theme so bloody-faced as this ,
Conjecture , expectation , and surmise
Of aids incertain should not be admitted .

Is ’t come to that ? I had thought weariness durst
not have attached one of so high blood .

Why , a prince should not be so loosely studied
as to remember so weak a composition .

And the boy that I gave Falstaff . He had him
from me Christian , and look if the fat villain have
not transformed him ape .

I do allow this wen to be as familiar with me as
my dog , and he holds his place , for look you how he
writes .

John Falstaff , knight .
Every man must know that as oft as he has occasion
to name himself , even like those that are kin to the
King , for they never prick their finger but they say
There’s some of the King’s blood spilt . How
comes that ? says he that takes upon him not to
conceive . The answer is as ready as a borrower’s
cap : I am the King’s poor cousin , sir .

O yet , for God’s sake , go not to these wars .
The time was , father , that you broke your word
When you were more endeared to it than now ,
When your own Percy , when my heart’s dear Harry ,
Threw many a northward look to see his father
Bring up his powers ; but he did long in vain .
Who then persuaded you to stay at home ?
There were two honors lost , yours and your son’s .
For yours , the God of heaven brighten it .
For his , it stuck upon him as the sun
In the gray vault of heaven , and by his light
Did all the chivalry of England move
To do brave acts . He was indeed the glass
Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves .
He had no legs that practiced not his gait ;
And speaking thick , which nature made his blemish ,
Became the accents of the valiant ;
For those that could speak low and tardily
Would turn their own perfection to abuse
To seem like him . So that in speech , in gait ,
In diet , in affections of delight ,
In military rules , humors of blood ,
He was the mark and glass , copy and book ,
That fashioned others . And him — O wondrous him !
O miracle of men ! — him did you leave ,
Second to none , unseconded by you ,
To look upon the hideous god of war
In disadvantage , to abide a field
Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur’s name
Did seem defensible . So you left him .
Never , O never , do his ghost the wrong
To hold your honor more precise and nice
With others than with him . Let them alone .
The Marshal and the Archbishop are strong .
Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers ,
Today might I , hanging on Hotspur’s neck ,
Have talked of Monmouth’s grave .

I’ faith , sweetheart , methinks now you are in
an excellent good temperality . Your pulsidge beats
as extraordinarily as heart would desire , and your
color , I warrant you , is as red as any rose , in good
truth , la . But , i’ faith , you have drunk too much
canaries , and that’s a marvellous searching wine ,
and it perfumes the blood ere one can say What’s
this ? How do you now ?

Cheater call you him ? I will bar no honest
man my house , nor no cheater , but I do not love
swaggering . By my troth , I am the worse when one
says swagger . Feel , masters , how I shake ; look
you , I warrant you .

Captain ? Thou abominable damned cheater , art
thou not ashamed to be called captain ? An captains
were of my mind , they would truncheon you out for
taking their names upon you before you have
earned them . You a captain ? You slave , for what ?
For tearing a poor whore’s ruff in a bawdy house ?
He a captain ! Hang him , rogue . He lives upon
mouldy stewed prunes and dried cakes . A captain ?
God’s light , these villains will make the word as
odious as the word occupy , which was an excellent
good word before it was ill sorted . Therefore
captains had need look to ’t .

Look whe’er the withered elder hath not his
poll clawed like a parrot .

And look whether the fiery trigon , his man , be
not lisping to his master’s old tables , his notebook ,
his counsel keeper .

Thou whoreson mad compound
of majesty , by this light flesh and corrupt blood ,
thou art welcome .

Who knocks so loud at door ? Look to th’ door
there , Francis .

It is very just . Look , here comes good Sir
John . — Give me your good hand , give me your
Worship’s good hand . By my troth , you like well and
bear your years very well . Welcome , good Sir John .

Then , my lord ,
Unto your Grace do I in chief address
The substance of my speech . If that rebellion
Came like itself , in base and abject routs ,
Led on by bloody youth , guarded with rage ,
And countenanced by boys and beggary —
I say , if damned commotion so appeared
In his true , native , and most proper shape ,
You , reverend father , and these noble lords
Had not been here to dress the ugly form
Of base and bloody insurrection
With your fair honors . You , Lord Archbishop ,
Whose see is by a civil peace maintained ,
Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touched ,
Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutored ,
Whose white investments figure innocence ,
The dove and very blessèd spirit of peace ,
Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself
Out of the speech of peace , that bears such grace ,
Into the harsh and boist’rous tongue of war ,
Turning your books to graves , your ink to blood ,
Your pens to lances , and your tongue divine
To a loud trumpet and a point of war ?

Wherefore do I this ? So the question stands .
Briefly , to this end : we are all diseased
And with our surfeiting and wanton hours
Have brought ourselves into a burning fever ,
And we must bleed for it ; of which disease
Our late King Richard , being infected , died .
But , my most noble Lord of Westmoreland ,
I take not on me here as a physician ,
Nor do I as an enemy to peace
Troop in the throngs of military men ,
But rather show awhile like fearful war
To diet rank minds sick of happiness
And purge th’ obstructions which begin to stop
Our very veins of life . Hear me more plainly .
I have in equal balance justly weighed
What wrongs our arms may do , what wrongs we
suffer ,
And find our griefs heavier than our offenses .
We see which way the stream of time doth run
And are enforced from our most quiet there
By the rough torrent of occasion ,
And have the summary of all our griefs ,
When time shall serve , to show in articles ;
Which long ere this we offered to the King
And might by no suit gain our audience .
When we are wronged and would unfold our griefs ,
We are denied access unto his person
Even by those men that most have done us wrong .
The dangers of the days but newly gone ,
Whose memory is written on the earth
With yet-appearing blood , and the examples
Of every minute’s instance , present now ,
Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms ,
Not to break peace or any branch of it ,
But to establish here a peace indeed ,
Concurring both in name and quality .

Whenever yet was your appeal denied ?
Wherein have you been gallèd by the King ?
What peer hath been suborned to grate on you ,
That you should seal this lawless bloody book
Of forged rebellion with a seal divine
And consecrate commotion’s bitter edge ?

I like them all , and do allow them well ,
And swear here by the honor of my blood
My father’s purposes have been mistook ,
And some about him have too lavishly
Wrested his meaning and authority .
My lord , these griefs shall be
with speed redressed ;
Upon my soul , they shall . If this may please you ,
Discharge your powers unto their several counties ,
As we will ours , and here , between the armies ,
Let’s drink together friendly and embrace ,
That all their eyes may bear those tokens home
Of our restorèd love and amity .

I pawned thee none .
I promised you redress of these same grievances
Whereof you did complain , which , by mine honor ,
I will perform with a most Christian care .
But for you rebels , look to taste the due
Meet for rebellion and such acts as yours .
Most shallowly did you these arms commence ,
Fondly brought here , and foolishly sent hence . —
Strike up our drums ; pursue the scattered stray .
God , and not we , hath safely fought today . —
Some guard these traitors to the block of death ,
Treason’s true bed and yielder-up of breath .

I would you had but the wit ; ’twere better
than your dukedom . Good faith , this same young
sober-blooded boy doth not love me , nor a man
cannot make him laugh . But that’s no marvel ; he
drinks no wine . There’s never none of these demure
boys come to any proof , for thin drink doth so
overcool their blood , and making many fish meals ,
that they fall into a kind of male green-sickness , and
then , when they marry , they get wenches . They are
generally fools and cowards , which some of us
should be too , but for inflammation . A good sherris
sack hath a two-fold operation in it . It ascends me
into the brain , dries me there all the foolish and
dull and crudy vapors which environ it , makes it
apprehensive , quick , forgetive , full of nimble , fiery ,
and delectable shapes , which , delivered o’er to the
voice , the tongue , which is the birth , becomes
excellent wit . The second property of your excellent
sherris is the warming of the blood , which ,
before cold and settled , left the liver white and pale ,
which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice .
But the sherris warms it and makes it course from
the inwards to the parts’ extremes . It illumineth the
face , which as a beacon gives warning to all the rest
of this little kingdom , man , to arm ; and then the
vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me
all to their captain , the heart , who , great and puffed
up with this retinue , doth any deed of courage , and
this valor comes of sherris . So that skill in the
weapon is nothing without sack , for that sets it
a-work ; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept
by a devil till sack commences it and sets it in
act and use . Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is
valiant , for the cold blood he did naturally inherit
of his father he hath , like lean , sterile , and bare
land , manured , husbanded , and tilled with excellent
endeavor of drinking good and good store
of fertile sherris , that he is become very hot and valiant .
If I had a thousand sons , the first human principle
I would teach them should be to forswear
thin potations and to addict themselves to sack .



How now , Bardolph ?

Nothing but well to thee , Thomas of Clarence .
How chance thou art not with the Prince thy
brother ?
He loves thee , and thou dost neglect him , Thomas .
Thou hast a better place in his affection
Than all thy brothers . Cherish it , my boy ,
And noble offices thou mayst effect
Of mediation , after I am dead ,
Between his greatness and thy other brethren .
Therefore omit him not , blunt not his love ,
Nor lose the good advantage of his grace
By seeming cold or careless of his will .
For he is gracious if he be observed ;
He hath a tear for pity , and a hand
Open as day for melting charity ;
Yet notwithstanding , being incensed he is flint ,
As humorous as winter , and as sudden
As flaws congealèd in the spring of day .
His temper therefore must be well observed .
Chide him for faults , and do it reverently ,
When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth ;
But , being moody , give him time and scope
Till that his passions , like a whale on ground ,
Confound themselves with working . Learn this ,
Thomas ,
And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends ,
A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in ,
That the united vessel of their blood ,
Mingled with venom of suggestion
( As , force perforce , the age will pour it in ) ,
Shall never leak , though it do work as strong
As aconitum or rash gunpowder .

Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds ,
And he , the noble image of my youth ,
Is overspread with them ; therefore my grief
Stretches itself beyond the hour of death .
The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape ,
In forms imaginary , th’ unguided days
And rotten times that you shall look upon
When I am sleeping with my ancestors .
For when his headstrong riot hath no curb ,
When rage and hot blood are his counsellors ,
When means and lavish manners meet together ,
O , with what wings shall his affections fly
Towards fronting peril and opposed decay !

My gracious lord , you look beyond him quite .
The Prince but studies his companions
Like a strange tongue , wherein , to gain the
language ,
’Tis needful that the most immodest word
Be looked upon and learned ; which , once attained ,
Your Highness knows , comes to no further use
But to be known and hated . So , like gross terms ,
The Prince will , in the perfectness of time ,
Cast off his followers , and their memory
Shall as a pattern or a measure live ,
By which his Grace must mete the lives of others ,
Turning past evils to advantages .

O Westmoreland , thou art a summer bird ,
Which ever in the haunch of winter sings
The lifting up of day .



Look , here’s more news .

My sovereign lord , cheer up yourself , look up .

No , no , he cannot long hold out these pangs .
Th’ incessant care and labor of his mind
Hath wrought the mure that should confine it in
So thin that life looks through and will break out .

No , I will sit and watch here by the King .

Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow ,
Being so troublesome a bedfellow ?
O polished perturbation , golden care ,
That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide
To many a watchful night ! Sleep with it now ;
Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet
As he whose brow with homely biggen bound
Snores out the watch of night . O majesty ,
When thou dost pinch thy bearer , thou dost sit
Like a rich armor worn in heat of day ,
That scald’st with safety . By his gates of breath
There lies a downy feather which stirs not ;
Did he suspire , that light and weightless down
Perforce must move . My gracious lord , my father ,
This sleep is sound indeed . This is a sleep
That from this golden rigol hath divorced
So many English kings . Thy due from me
Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood ,
Which nature , love , and filial tenderness
Shall , O dear father , pay thee plenteously .
My due from thee is this imperial crown ,
Which , as immediate from thy place and blood ,
Derives itself to me . Lo ,
where it sits ,
Which God shall guard . And , put the world’s whole
strength
Into one giant arm , it shall not force
This lineal honor from me . This from thee
Will I to mine leave , as ’tis left to me .

My lord , I found the Prince in the next room ,
Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks ,
With such a deep demeanor in great sorrow
That tyranny , which never quaffed but blood ,
Would , by beholding him , have washed his knife
With gentle eyedrops . He is coming hither .

O pardon me , my liege ! But for my tears ,
The moist impediments unto my speech ,
I had forestalled this dear and deep rebuke
Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard
The course of it so far . There is your crown ,
And He that wears the crown immortally
Long guard it yours . If I affect it
more
Than as your honor and as your renown ,
Let me no more from this obedience rise ,
Which my most inward true and duteous spirit
Teacheth this prostrate and exterior bending .
God witness with me , when I here came in
And found no course of breath within your Majesty ,
How cold it struck my heart ! If I do feign ,
O , let me in my present wildness die
And never live to show th’ incredulous world
The noble change that I have purposèd .
Coming to look on you , thinking you dead ,
And dead almost , my liege , to think you were ,
I spake unto this crown as having sense ,
And thus upbraided it : The care on thee
depending
Hath fed upon the body of my father ;
Therefore thou best of gold art worst of gold .
Other , less fine in carat , is more precious ,
Preserving life in med’cine potable ;
But thou , most fine , most honored , most renowned ,
Hast eat thy bearer up . Thus , my most royal liege ,
Accusing it , I put it on my head
To try with it , as with an enemy
That had before my face murdered my father ,
The quarrel of a true inheritor .
But if it did infect my blood with joy
Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride ,
If any rebel or vain spirit of mine
Did with the least affection of a welcome
Give entertainment to the might of it ,
Let God forever keep it from my head
And make me as the poorest vassal is
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it .

O my son ,
God put it in thy mind to take it hence
That thou mightst win the more thy father’s love ,
Pleading so wisely in excuse of it .
Come hither , Harry , sit thou by my bed
And hear , I think , the very latest counsel
That ever I shall breathe .

God knows , my son ,
By what bypaths and indirect crook’d ways
I met this crown , and I myself know well
How troublesome it sat upon my head .
To thee it shall descend with better quiet ,
Better opinion , better confirmation ,
For all the soil of the achievement goes
With me into the earth . It seemed in me
But as an honor snatched with boist’rous hand ,
And I had many living to upbraid
My gain of it by their assistances ,
Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed ,
Wounding supposèd peace . All these bold fears
Thou seest with peril I have answerèd ,
For all my reign hath been but as a scene
Acting that argument . And now my death
Changes the mood , for what in me was purchased
Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort .
So thou the garland wear’st successively .
Yet though thou stand’st more sure than I could do ,
Thou art not firm enough , since griefs are green ,
And all my friends , which thou must make thy
friends ,
Have but their stings and teeth newly ta’en out ,
By whose fell working I was first advanced
And by whose power I well might lodge a fear
To be again displaced ; which to avoid ,
I cut them off and had a purpose now
To lead out many to the Holy Land ,
Lest rest and lying still might make them look
Too near unto my state . Therefore , my Harry ,
Be it thy course to busy giddy minds
With foreign quarrels , that action , hence borne
out ,
May waste the memory of the former days .
More would I , but my lungs are wasted so
That strength of speech is utterly denied me .
How I came by the crown , O God forgive ,
And grant it may with thee in true peace live .

Look , look , here comes my John of Lancaster .

Go to , I say , he shall have no wrong . Look
about , Davy . Where are you , Sir John ?
Come , come , come , off with your boots . — Give me
your hand , Master Bardolph .

I’ll follow you , good Master Robert Shallow .
Bardolph , look to our horses . If I were sawed into quantities ,
I should make four dozen of such bearded hermits’
staves as Master Shallow . It is a wonderful thing to
see the semblable coherence of his men’s spirits
and his . They , by observing of him , do bear
themselves like foolish justices ; he , by conversing
with them , is turned into a justice-like servingman .
Their spirits are so married in conjunction with the
participation of society that they flock together in
consent like so many wild geese . If I had a suit to
Master Shallow , I would humor his men with the
imputation of being near their master ; if to his men ,
I would curry with Master Shallow that no man
could better command his servants . It is certain
that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is
caught , as men take diseases , one of another . Therefore
let men take heed of their company . I will
devise matter enough out of this Shallow to keep
Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out
of six fashions , which is four terms , or two actions ,
and he shall laugh without intervallums . O , it is
much that a lie with a slight oath and a jest with a
sad brow will do with a fellow that never had the
ache in his shoulders . O , you shall see him laugh till
his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up .

I know he doth not , and do arm myself
To welcome the condition of the time ,
Which cannot look more hideously upon me
Than I have drawn it in my fantasy .

You all look strangely on me .
And you most .
You are , I think , assured I love you not .

I then did use the person of your father ;
The image of his power lay then in me .
And in th’ administration of his law ,
Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth ,
Your Highness pleasèd to forget my place ,
The majesty and power of law and justice ,
The image of the King whom I presented ,
And struck me in my very seat of judgment ,
Whereon , as an offender to your father ,
I gave bold way to my authority
And did commit you . If the deed were ill ,
Be you contented , wearing now the garland ,
To have a son set your decrees at nought ?
To pluck down justice from your awful bench ?
To trip the course of law and blunt the sword
That guards the peace and safety of your person ?
Nay more , to spurn at your most royal image
And mock your workings in a second body ?
Question your royal thoughts , make the case yours ;
Be now the father and propose a son ,
Hear your own dignity so much profaned ,
See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted ,
Behold yourself so by a son disdained ,
And then imagine me taking your part
And in your power soft silencing your son .
After this cold considerance , sentence me ,
And , as you are a king , speak in your state
What I have done that misbecame my place ,
My person , or my liege’s sovereignty .

You are right , justice , and you weigh this well .
Therefore still bear the balance and the sword .
And I do wish your honors may increase
Till you do live to see a son of mine
Offend you and obey you as I did .
So shall I live to speak my father’s words :
Happy am I that have a man so bold
That dares do justice on my proper son ;
And not less happy , having such a son
That would deliver up his greatness so
Into the hands of justice . You did commit me ,
For which I do commit into your hand
Th’ unstainèd sword that you have used to bear ,
With this remembrance : that you use the same
With the like bold , just , and impartial spirit
As you have done ’gainst me . There is my hand .

You shall be as a father to my youth ,
My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear ,
And I will stoop and humble my intents
To your well-practiced wise directions . —
And , princes all , believe me , I beseech you :
My father is gone wild into his grave ,
For in his tomb lie my affections ,
And with his spirits sadly I survive
To mock the expectation of the world ,
To frustrate prophecies , and to raze out
Rotten opinion , who hath writ me down
After my seeming . The tide of blood in me
Hath proudly flowed in vanity till now .
Now doth it turn and ebb back to the sea ,
Where it shall mingle with the state of floods
And flow henceforth in formal majesty .
Now call we our high court of parliament ,
And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel
That the great body of our state may go
In equal rank with the best-governed nation ;
That war , or peace , or both at once , may be
As things acquainted and familiar to us ,
In which you , father , shall
have foremost hand .
Our coronation done , we will accite ,
As I before remembered , all our state .
And , God consigning to my good intents ,
No prince nor peer shall have just cause to say
God shorten Harry’s happy life one day .

Why , there spoke a king . Lack nothing , be
merry . Look who’s at door
there , ho . Who knocks ?

O the Lord , that Sir John were come ! I would
make this a bloody day to somebody . But I pray God
the fruit of her womb might miscarry .

Ay , come , you starved bloodhound .

That can hardly be , Master Shallow . Do not
you grieve at this . I shall be sent for in private to
him . Look you , he must seem thus to the world .
Fear not your advancements . I will be the man yet
that shall make you great .

First my fear , then my curtsy , last my speech . My
fear is your displeasure , my curtsy my duty , and my
speech , to beg your pardons . If you look for a good
speech now , you undo me , for what I have to say is
of mine own making , and what indeed I should say
will , I doubt , prove mine own marring .
But to the purpose , and so to the venture . Be it
known to you , as it is very well , I was lately here in
the end of a displeasing play to pray your patience
for it and to promise you a better . I meant indeed to
pay you with this , which , if like an ill venture it
come unluckily home , I break , and you , my gentle
creditors , lose . Here I promised you I would be ,
and here I commit my body to your mercies . Bate
me some , and I will pay you some , and , as most
debtors do , promise you infinitely . And so I kneel
down before you , but , indeed , to pray for the
Queen .
If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me ,
will you command me to use my legs ? And yet that
were but light payment , to dance out of your debt .
But a good conscience will make any possible
satisfaction , and so would I . All the gentlewomen
here have forgiven me ; if the gentlemen will not ,
then the gentlemen do not agree with the gentlewomen ,
which was never seen before in such an
assembly .
One word more , I beseech you : if you be not too
much cloyed with fat meat , our humble author will
continue the story , with Sir John in it , and make
you merry with fair Katherine of France , where , for
anything I know , Falstaff shall die of a sweat , unless
already he be killed with your hard opinions ; for
Oldcastle died a martyr , and this is not the man .
My tongue is weary ; when my legs are too , I will bid
you good night .

The courses of his youth promised it not .
The breath no sooner left his father’s body
But that his wildness , mortified in him ,
Seemed to die too . Yea , at that very moment
Consideration like an angel came
And whipped th’ offending Adam out of him ,
Leaving his body as a paradise
T’ envelop and contain celestial spirits .
Never was such a sudden scholar made ,
Never came reformation in a flood
With such a heady currance scouring faults ,
Nor never Hydra-headed willfulness
So soon did lose his seat , and all at once ,
As in this king .

Hear him but reason in divinity
And , all-admiring , with an inward wish
You would desire the King were made a prelate ;
Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs ,
You would say it hath been all in all his study ;
List his discourse of war , and you shall hear
A fearful battle rendered you in music ;
Turn him to any cause of policy ,
The Gordian knot of it he will unloose
Familiar as his garter ; that , when he speaks ,
The air , a chartered libertine , is still ,
And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears
To steal his sweet and honeyed sentences ;
So that the art and practic part of life
Must be the mistress to this theoric ;
Which is a wonder how his Grace should glean it ,
Since his addiction was to courses vain ,
His companies unlettered , rude , and shallow ,
His hours filled up with riots , banquets , sports ,
And never noted in him any study ,
Any retirement , any sequestration
From open haunts and popularity .

Sure we thank you .
My learnèd lord , we pray you to proceed
And justly and religiously unfold
Why the law Salic that they have in France
Or should or should not bar us in our claim .
And God forbid , my dear and faithful lord ,
That you should fashion , wrest , or bow your
reading ,
Or nicely charge your understanding soul
With opening titles miscreate , whose right
Suits not in native colors with the truth ;
For God doth know how many now in health
Shall drop their blood in approbation
Of what your reverence shall incite us to .
Therefore take heed how you impawn our person ,
How you awake our sleeping sword of war .
We charge you in the name of God , take heed ,
For never two such kingdoms did contend
Without much fall of blood , whose guiltless drops
Are every one a woe , a sore complaint
’Gainst him whose wrongs gives edge unto the
swords
That makes such waste in brief mortality .
Under this conjuration , speak , my lord ,
For we will hear , note , and believe in heart
That what you speak is in your conscience washed
As pure as sin with baptism .

Then hear me , gracious sovereign , and you peers
That owe yourselves , your lives , and services
To this imperial throne . There is no bar
To make against your Highness’ claim to France
But this , which they produce from Pharamond :
In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant
( No woman shall succeed in Salic land ) ,
Which Salic land the French unjustly gloze
To be the realm of France , and Pharamond
The founder of this law and female bar .
Yet their own authors faithfully affirm
That the land Salic is in Germany ,
Between the floods of Sala and of Elbe ,
Where Charles the Great , having subdued the
Saxons ,
There left behind and settled certain French ,
Who , holding in disdain the German women
For some dishonest manners of their life ,
Established then this law : to wit , no female
Should be inheritrix in Salic land ,
Which Salic , as I said , ’twixt Elbe and Sala
Is at this day in Germany called Meissen .
Then doth it well appear the Salic law
Was not devisèd for the realm of France ,
Nor did the French possess the Salic land
Until four hundred one and twenty years
After defunction of King Pharamond ,
Idly supposed the founder of this law ,
Who died within the year of our redemption
Four hundred twenty-six ; and Charles the Great
Subdued the Saxons and did seat the French
Beyond the river Sala in the year
Eight hundred five . Besides , their writers say ,
King Pepin , which deposèd Childeric ,
Did , as heir general , being descended
Of Blithild , which was daughter to King Clothair ,
Make claim and title to the crown of France .
Hugh Capet also , who usurped the crown
Of Charles the Duke of Lorraine , sole heir male
Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great ,
To find his title with some shows of truth ,
Though in pure truth it was corrupt and naught ,
Conveyed himself as th’ heir to th’ Lady Lingare ,
Daughter to Charlemagne , who was the son
To Lewis the Emperor , and Lewis the son
Of Charles the Great . Also King Lewis the Tenth ,
Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet ,
Could not keep quiet in his conscience ,
Wearing the crown of France , till satisfied
That fair Queen Isabel , his grandmother ,
Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare ,
Daughter to Charles the foresaid Duke of Lorraine :
By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great
Was reunited to the crown of France .
So that , as clear as is the summer’s sun ,
King Pepin’s title and Hugh Capet’s claim ,
King Lewis his satisfaction , all appear
To hold in right and title of the female .
So do the kings of France unto this day ,
Howbeit they would hold up this Salic law
To bar your Highness claiming from the female ,
And rather choose to hide them in a net
Than amply to imbar their crooked titles
Usurped from you and your progenitors .

The sin upon my head , dread sovereign ,
For in the Book of Numbers is it writ :
When the man dies , let the inheritance
Descend unto the daughter . Gracious lord ,
Stand for your own , unwind your bloody flag ,
Look back into your mighty ancestors .
Go , my dread lord , to your great-grandsire’s tomb ,
From whom you claim ; invoke his warlike spirit
And your great-uncle’s , Edward the Black Prince ,
Who on the French ground played a tragedy ,
Making defeat on the full power of France
Whiles his most mighty father on a hill
Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp
Forage in blood of French nobility .
O noble English , that could entertain
With half their forces the full pride of France
And let another half stand laughing by ,
All out of work and cold for action !

Awake remembrance of these valiant dead
And with your puissant arm renew their feats .
You are their heir , you sit upon their throne ,
The blood and courage that renownèd them
Runs in your veins ; and my thrice-puissant liege
Is in the very May-morn of his youth ,
Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises .

Your brother kings and monarchs of the Earth earth
Do all expect that you should rouse yourself
As did the former lions of your blood .

O , let their bodies follow , my dear liege ,
With blood and sword and fire to win your right ,
In aid whereof we of the spiritualty
Will raise your Highness such a mighty sum
As never did the clergy at one time
Bring in to any of your ancestors .

Therefore doth heaven divide
The state of man in divers functions ,
Setting endeavor in continual motion ,
To which is fixèd as an aim or butt
Obedience ; for so work the honeybees ,
Creatures that by a rule in nature teach
The act of order to a peopled kingdom .
They have a king and officers of sorts ,
Where some like magistrates correct at home ,
Others like merchants venture trade abroad ,
Others like soldiers armèd in their stings
Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds ,
Which pillage they with merry march bring home
To the tent royal of their emperor ,
Who , busied in his majesty , surveys
The singing masons building roofs of gold ,
The civil citizens kneading up the honey ,
The poor mechanic porters crowding in
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate ,
The sad-eyed justice with his surly hum
Delivering o’er to executors pale
The lazy yawning drone . I this infer :
That many things , having full reference
To one consent , may work contrariously ,
As many arrows loosèd several ways
Come to one mark , as many ways meet in one town ,
As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea ,
As many lines close in the dial’s center ,
So may a thousand actions , once afoot ,
End in one purpose and be all well borne
Without defeat . Therefore to France , my liege !
Divide your happy England into four ,
Whereof take you one quarter into France ,
And you withal shall make all Gallia shake .
If we , with thrice such powers left at home ,
Cannot defend our own doors from the dog ,
Let us be worried , and our nation lose
The name of hardiness and policy .

We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us .
His present and your pains we thank you for .
When we have matched our rackets to these balls ,
We will in France , by God’s grace , play a set
Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard .
Tell him he hath made a match with such a
wrangler
That all the courts of France will be disturbed
With chases . And we understand him well ,
How he comes o’er us with our wilder days ,
Not measuring what use we made of them .
We never valued this poor seat of England ,
And therefore , living hence , did give ourself
To barbarous license , as ’tis ever common
That men are merriest when they are from home .
But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state ,
Be like a king , and show my sail of greatness
When I do rouse me in my throne of France ,
For that I have laid by my majesty
And plodded like a man for working days ;
But I will rise there with so full a glory
That I will dazzle all the eyes of France ,
Yea , strike the Dauphin blind to look on us .
And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his
Hath turned his balls to gun-stones , and his soul
Shall stand sore chargèd for the wasteful vengeance
That shall fly with them ; for many a thousand
widows
Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands ,
Mock mothers from their sons , mock castles down ;
And some are yet ungotten and unborn
That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin’s scorn .
But this lies all within the will of God ,
To whom I do appeal , and in whose name
Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on ,
To venge me as I may and to put forth
My rightful hand in a well-hallowed cause .
So get you hence in peace . And tell the Dauphin
His jest will savor but of shallow wit
When thousands weep more than did laugh at it . —
Convey them with safe conduct . — Fare you well .

Let floods o’erswell and fiends for food howl on !

Then Richard , Earl of Cambridge , there is yours —
There yours , Lord Scroop of Masham . — And , sir
knight ,
Grey of Northumberland , this same is yours . —
Read them , and know I know your worthiness . —
My Lord of Westmoreland and uncle Exeter ,
We will aboard tonight . — Why how now , gentlemen ?
What see you in those papers , that you lose
So much complexion ? — Look you , how they change .
Their cheeks are paper . — Why , what read you there
That have so cowarded and chased your blood
Out of appearance ?

The mercy that was quick in us but late
By your own counsel is suppressed and killed .
You must not dare , for shame , to talk of mercy ,
For your own reasons turn into your bosoms
As dogs upon their masters , worrying you . —
See you , my princes and my noble peers ,
These English monsters . My Lord of Cambridge
here ,
You know how apt our love was to accord
To furnish him with all appurtenants
Belonging to his honor , and this man
Hath , for a few light crowns , lightly conspired
And sworn unto the practices of France
To kill us here in Hampton ; to the which
This knight , no less for bounty bound to us
Than Cambridge is , hath likewise sworn . — But O ,
What shall I say to thee , Lord Scroop , thou cruel ,
Ingrateful , savage , and inhuman creature ?
Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels ,
That knew’st the very bottom of my soul ,
That almost mightst have coined me into gold ,
Wouldst thou have practiced on me for thy use —
May it be possible that foreign hire
Could out of thee extract one spark of evil
That might annoy my finger ? ’Tis so strange
That , though the truth of it stands off as gross
As black and white , my eye will scarcely see it .
Treason and murder ever kept together ,
As two yoke-devils sworn to either’s purpose ,
Working so grossly in a natural cause
That admiration did not whoop at them .
But thou , ’gainst all proportion , didst bring in
Wonder to wait on treason and on murder ,
And whatsoever cunning fiend it was
That wrought upon thee so preposterously
Hath got the voice in hell for excellence .
All other devils that suggest by treasons
Do botch and bungle up damnation
With patches , colors , and with forms being fetched
From glist’ring semblances of piety ;
But he that tempered thee bade thee stand up ,
Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason ,
Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor .
If that same demon that hath gulled thee thus
Should with his lion gait walk the whole world ,
He might return to vasty Tartar back
And tell the legions I can never win
A soul so easy as that Englishman’s .
O , how hast thou with jealousy infected
The sweetness of affiance ! Show men dutiful ?
Why , so didst thou . Seem they grave and learnèd ?
Why , so didst thou . Come they of noble family ?
Why , so didst thou . Seem they religious ?
Why , so didst thou . Or are they spare in diet ,
Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger ,
Constant in spirit , not swerving with the blood ,
Garnished and decked in modest complement ,
Not working with the eye without the ear ,
And but in purgèd judgment trusting neither ?
Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem .
And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot
To mark the full-fraught man and best endued
With some suspicion . I will weep for thee ,
For this revolt of thine methinks is like
Another fall of man . — Their faults are open .
Arrest them to the answer of the law ,
And God acquit them of their practices .

Come , let’s away . — My love , give me thy lips .
Look to my chattels and my movables .
Let senses rule . The word is Pitch and pay . Trust
none , for oaths are straws , men’s faiths are wafer-cakes ,
and Holdfast is the only dog , my duck .
Therefore , Caveto be thy counselor . Go , clear thy
crystals . — Yoke-fellows in arms , let us to France ,
like horse-leeches , my boys , to suck , to suck , the
very blood to suck .

Think we King Harry strong ,
And , princes , look you strongly arm to meet him .
The kindred of him hath been fleshed upon us ,
And he is bred out of that bloody strain
That haunted us in our familiar paths .
Witness our too-much-memorable shame
When Cressy battle fatally was struck
And all our princes captived by the hand
Of that black name , Edward , Black Prince of
Wales ,
Whiles that his mountain sire , on mountain standing
Up in the air , crowned with the golden sun ,
Saw his heroical seed and smiled to see him
Mangle the work of nature and deface
The patterns that by God and by French fathers
Had twenty years been made . This is a stem
Of that victorious stock , and let us fear
The native mightiness and fate of him .

From him , and thus he greets your Majesty :
He wills you , in the name of God almighty ,
That you divest yourself and lay apart
The borrowed glories that , by gift of heaven ,
By law of nature and of nations , ’longs
To him and to his heirs — namely , the crown
And all wide-stretchèd honors that pertain
By custom and the ordinance of times
Unto the crown of France . That you may know
’Tis no sinister nor no awkward claim
Picked from the wormholes of long-vanished days
Nor from the dust of old oblivion raked ,
He sends you this most memorable line ,

In every branch truly demonstrative ,
Willing you overlook this pedigree ,
And when you find him evenly derived
From his most famed of famous ancestors ,
Edward the Third , he bids you then resign
Your crown and kingdom , indirectly held
From him , the native and true challenger .

Bloody constraint , for if you hide the crown
Even in your hearts , there will he rake for it .
Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming ,
In thunder and in earthquake like a Jove ,
That , if requiring fail , he will compel ,
And bids you , in the bowels of the Lord ,
Deliver up the crown and to take mercy
On the poor souls for whom this hungry war
Opens his vasty jaws , and on your head
Turning the widows’ tears , the orphans’ cries ,
The dead men’s blood , the privèd maidens’
groans ,
For husbands , fathers , and betrothèd lovers
That shall be swallowed in this controversy .
This is his claim , his threat’ning , and my message —
Unless the Dauphin be in presence here ,
To whom expressly I bring greeting too .

Once more unto the breach , dear friends , once
more ,
Or close the wall up with our English dead !
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility ,
But when the blast of war blows in our ears ,
Then imitate the action of the tiger :
Stiffen the sinews , summon up the blood ,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage ,
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ,
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon , let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a gallèd rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean .
Now set the teeth , and stretch the nostril wide ,
Hold hard the breath , and bend up every spirit
To his full height . On , on , you noblest English ,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof ,
Fathers that , like so many Alexanders ,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought ,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument .
Dishonor not your mothers . Now attest
That those whom you called fathers did beget you .
Be copy now to men of grosser blood
And teach them how to war . And you , good
yeomen ,
Whose limbs were made in England , show us here
The mettle of your pasture . Let us swear
That you are worth your breeding , which I doubt
not ,
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble luster in your eyes .
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips ,
Straining upon the start . The game’s afoot .
Follow your spirit , and upon this charge
Cry God for Harry , England , and Saint George !

The plainsong is most just , for humors do
abound .
Knocks go and come . God’s vassals drop and die ,
And sword and shield ,
In bloody field ,
Doth win immortal fame .

To the mines ? Tell you the Duke it is not so
good to come to the mines , for , look you , the mines
is not according to the disciplines of the war . The
concavities of it is not sufficient , for , look you , th’
athversary , you may discuss unto the Duke , look
you , is digt himself four yard under the countermines .
By Cheshu , I think he will plow up all if
there is not better directions .

By Cheshu , he is an ass , as in the world . I
will verify as much in his beard . He has no more
directions in the true disciplines of the wars , look
you , of the Roman disciplines , than is a puppy dog .

Captain Macmorris , I beseech you now ,
will you voutsafe me , look you , a few disputations
with you as partly touching or concerning the
disciplines of the war , the Roman wars ? In the way
of argument , look you , and friendly communication ,
partly to satisfy my opinion , and partly for the
satisfaction , look you , of my mind , as touching the
direction of the military discipline , that is the point .

Captain Macmorris , I think , look you , under
your correction , there is not many of your
nation —

Look you , if you take the matter otherwise
than is meant , Captain Macmorris , peradventure I
shall think you do not use me with that affability as ,
in discretion , you ought to use me , look you , being
as good a man as yourself , both in the disciplines of
war and in the derivation of my birth , and in other
particularities .

Captain Macmorris , when there is more
better opportunity to be required , look you , I will
be so bold as to tell you I know the disciplines of
war , and there is an end .

How yet resolves the Governor of the town ?
This is the latest parle we will admit .
Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves
Or , like to men proud of destruction ,
Defy us to our worst . For , as I am a soldier ,
A name that in my thoughts becomes me best ,
If I begin the batt’ry once again ,
I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur
Till in her ashes she lie burièd .
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up ,
And the fleshed soldier , rough and hard of heart ,
In liberty of bloody hand , shall range
With conscience wide as hell , mowing like grass
Your fresh fair virgins and your flow’ring infants .
What is it then to me if impious war ,
Arrayed in flames like to the prince of fiends ,
Do with his smirched complexion all fell feats
Enlinked to waste and desolation ?
What is ’t to me , when you yourselves are cause ,
If your pure maidens fall into the hand
Of hot and forcing violation ?
What rein can hold licentious wickedness
When down the hill he holds his fierce career ?
We may as bootless spend our vain command
Upon th’ enragèd soldiers in their spoil
As send precepts to the Leviathan
To come ashore . Therefore , you men of Harfleur ,
Take pity of your town and of your people
Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command ,
Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace
O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds
Of heady murder , spoil , and villainy .
If not , why , in a moment look to see
The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand
Desire the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters ,
Your fathers taken by the silver beards
And their most reverend heads dashed to the walls ,
Your naked infants spitted upon pikes
Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused
Do break the clouds , as did the wives of Jewry
At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen .
What say you ? Will you yield and this avoid
Or , guilty in defense , be thus destroyed ?

Ô Dieu vivant , shall a few sprays of us ,
The emptying of our fathers’ luxury ,
Our scions , put in wild and savage stock ,
Spurt up so suddenly into the clouds
And overlook their grafters ?

Dieu de batailles , where have they this mettle ?
Is not their climate foggy , raw , and dull ,
On whom , as in despite , the sun looks pale ,
Killing their fruit with frowns ? Can sodden water ,
A drench for sur-reined jades , their barley broth ,
Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat ?
And shall our quick blood , spirited with wine ,
Seem frosty ? O , for honor of our land ,
Let us not hang like roping icicles
Upon our houses’ thatch , whiles a more frosty
people
Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields !
Poor we may call them in their native lords .

Where is Montjoy the herald ? Speed him hence .
Let him greet England with our sharp defiance .
Up , princes , and , with spirit of honor edged
More sharper than your swords , hie to the field :
Charles Delabreth , High Constable of France ;
You Dukes of Orléans , Bourbon , and of Berri ,
Alençon , Brabant , Bar , and Burgundy ;
Jacques Chatillon , Rambures , Vaudemont ,
Beaumont , Grandpré , Roussi , and Faulconbridge ,
Foix , Lestrale , Bouciquault , and Charolois ;
High dukes , great princes , barons , lords , and
knights ,
For your great seats now quit you of great shames .
Bar Harry England , that sweeps through our land
With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur .
Rush on his host , as doth the melted snow
Upon the valleys , whose low vassal seat
The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon .
Go down upon him — you have power enough —
And in a captive chariot into Rouen
Bring him our prisoner .

By your patience , Aunchient Pistol , Fortune
is painted blind , with a muffler afore her eyes , to
signify to you that Fortune is blind ; and she is
painted also with a wheel to signify to you , which is
the moral of it , that she is turning and inconstant ,
and mutability and variation ; and her foot , look you ,
is fixed upon a spherical stone , which rolls and rolls
and rolls . In good truth , the poet makes a most
excellent description of it . Fortune is an excellent
moral .

Certainly , aunchient , it is not a thing to
rejoice at , for if , look you , he were my brother , I
would desire the Duke to use his good pleasure and
put him to execution , for discipline ought to be
used .

Ay , so please your Majesty . The Duke of
Exeter has very gallantly maintained the pridge .
The French is gone off , look you , and there is gallant
and most prave passages . Marry , th’ athversary was
have possession of the pridge , but he is enforced
to retire , and the Duke of Exeter is master of the
pridge . I can tell your Majesty , the Duke is a prave
man .

Thus says my king : Say thou to Harry of
England , though we seemed dead , we did but sleep .
Advantage is a better soldier than rashness . Tell him
we could have rebuked him at Harfleur , but that we
thought not good to bruise an injury till it were full
ripe . Now we speak upon our cue , and our voice is
imperial . England shall repent his folly , see his
weakness , and admire our sufferance . Bid him
therefore consider of his ransom , which must proportion
the losses we have borne , the subjects we
have lost , the disgrace we have digested , which , in
weight to reanswer , his pettiness would bow under .
For our losses , his exchequer is too poor ; for th’
effusion of our blood , the muster of his kingdom
too faint a number ; and for our disgrace , his own
person kneeling at our feet but a weak and worthless
satisfaction . To this , add defiance , and tell him ,
for conclusion , he hath betrayed his followers ,
whose condemnation is pronounced . So far my
king and master ; so much my office .

Thou dost thy office fairly . Turn thee back ,
And tell thy king I do not seek him now
But could be willing to march on to Calais
Without impeachment , for , to say the sooth ,
Though ’tis no wisdom to confess so much
Unto an enemy of craft and vantage ,
My people are with sickness much enfeebled ,
My numbers lessened , and those few I have
Almost no better than so many French ,
Who when they were in health , I tell thee , herald ,
I thought upon one pair of English legs
Did march three Frenchmen . Yet forgive me , God ,
That I do brag thus . This your air of France
Hath blown that vice in me . I must repent .
Go therefore , tell thy master : here I am .
My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk ,
My army but a weak and sickly guard ,
Yet , God before , tell him we will come on
Though France himself and such another neighbor
Stand in our way . There’s for thy labor , Montjoy .

Go bid thy master well advise himself :
If we may pass , we will ; if we be hindered ,
We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
Discolor . And so , Montjoy , fare you well .
The sum of all our answer is but this :
We would not seek a battle as we are ,
Nor , as we are , we say we will not shun it .
So tell your master .

Now entertain conjecture of a time
When creeping murmur and the poring dark
Fills the wide vessel of the universe .
From camp to camp , through the foul womb of
night ,
The hum of either army stilly sounds ,
That the fixed sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other’s watch .
Fire answers fire , and through their paly flames
Each battle sees the other’s umbered face ;
Steed threatens steed in high and boastful neighs
Piercing the night’s dull ear ; and from the tents
The armorers , accomplishing the knights ,
With busy hammers closing rivets up ,
Give dreadful note of preparation .
The country cocks do crow , the clocks do toll ,
And , the third hour of drowsy morning named ,
Proud of their numbers and secure in soul ,
The confident and overlusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice
And chide the cripple , tardy-gaited night ,
Who like a foul and ugly witch doth limp
So tediously away . The poor condemnèd English ,
Like sacrifices , by their watchful fires
Sit patiently and inly ruminate
The morning’s danger ; and their gesture sad ,
Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats ,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts . O now , who will behold
The royal captain of this ruined band
Walking from watch to watch , from tent to tent ,
Let him cry , Praise and glory on his head !
For forth he goes and visits all his host ,
Bids them good morrow with a modest smile ,
And calls them brothers , friends , and countrymen .
Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath enrounded him ,
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of color
Unto the weary and all-watchèd night ,
But freshly looks and overbears attaint
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty ,
That every wretch , pining and pale before ,
Beholding him , plucks comfort from his looks .
A largesse universal , like the sun ,
His liberal eye doth give to everyone ,
Thawing cold fear , that mean and gentle all
Behold , as may unworthiness define ,
A little touch of Harry in the night .
And so our scene must to the battle fly ,
Where , O for pity , we shall much disgrace ,
With four or five most vile and ragged foils
Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous ,
The name of Agincourt . Yet sit and see ,
Minding true things by what their mock’ries be .

If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating
coxcomb , is it meet , think you , that we should also ,
look you , be an ass and a fool and a prating
coxcomb , in your own conscience now ?

Even as men wracked upon a sand , that
look to be washed off the next tide .

But if the cause be not good , the King
himself hath a heavy reckoning to make , when all
those legs and arms and heads , chopped off in a
battle , shall join together at the latter day , and cry
all We died at such a place , some swearing , some
crying for a surgeon , some upon their wives left
poor behind them , some upon the debts they owe ,
some upon their children rawly left . I am afeard
there are few die well that die in a battle , for how
can they charitably dispose of anything when blood
is their argument ? Now , if these men do not die
well , it will be a black matter for the king that led
them to it , who to disobey were against all proportion
of subjection .

O God of battles , steel my soldiers’ hearts .
Possess them not with fear . Take from them now
The sense of reck’ning or th’ opposèd numbers
Pluck their hearts from them . Not today , O Lord ,
O , not today , think not upon the fault
My father made in compassing the crown .
I Richard’s body have interrèd new
And on it have bestowed more contrite tears
Than from it issued forcèd drops of blood .
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay
Who twice a day their withered hands hold up
Toward heaven to pardon blood . And I have built
Two chantries where the sad and solemn priests
Sing still for Richard’s soul . More will I do —
Though all that I can do is nothing worth ,
Since that my penitence comes after all ,
Imploring pardon .

Mount them , and make incision in their hides ,
That their hot blood may spin in English eyes
And dout them with superfluous courage . Ha !

What , will you have them weep our horses’ blood ?
How shall we then behold their natural tears ?

To horse , you gallant princes , straight to horse .
Do but behold yond poor and starvèd band ,
And your fair show shall suck away their souls ,
Leaving them but the shales and husks of men .
There is not work enough for all our hands ,
Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins
To give each naked curtal ax a stain ,
That our French gallants shall today draw out
And sheathe for lack of sport . Let us but blow on
them ,
The vapor of our valor will o’erturn them .
’Tis positive against all exceptions , lords ,
That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants ,
Who in unnecessary action swarm
About our squares of battle , were enough
To purge this field of such a hilding foe ,
Though we upon this mountain’s basis by
Took stand for idle speculation ,
But that our honors must not . What’s to say ?
A very little little let us do ,
And all is done . Then let the trumpets sound
The tucket sonance and the note to mount ,
For our approach shall so much dare the field
That England shall couch down in fear and yield .

Why do you stay so long , my lords of France ?
Yond island carrions , desperate of their bones ,
Ill-favoredly become the morning field .
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose ,
And our air shakes them passing scornfully .
Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggared host
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps .
The horsemen sit like fixèd candlesticks
With torch staves in their hand , and their poor jades
Lob down their heads , drooping the hides and hips ,
The gum down-roping from their pale dead eyes ,
And in their pale dull mouths the gemeled bit
Lies foul with chawed grass , still and motionless .
And their executors , the knavish crows ,
Fly o’er them all , impatient for their hour .
Description cannot suit itself in words
To demonstrate the life of such a battle
In life so lifeless , as it shows itself .

What’s he that wishes so ?
My cousin Westmoreland ? No , my fair cousin .
If we are marked to die , we are enough
To do our country loss ; and if to live ,
The fewer men , the greater share of honor .
God’s will , I pray thee wish not one man more .
By Jove , I am not covetous for gold ,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear ;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires .
But if it be a sin to covet honor ,
I am the most offending soul alive .
No , ’faith , my coz , wish not a man from England .
God’s peace , I would not lose so great an honor
As one man more , methinks , would share from me ,
For the best hope I have . O , do not wish one more !
Rather proclaim it , Westmoreland , through my host ,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight ,
Let him depart . His passport shall be made ,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse .
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us .
This day is called the feast of Crispian .
He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand o’ tiptoe when this day is named
And rouse him at the name of Crispian .
He that shall see this day , and live old age ,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors
And say Tomorrow is Saint Crispian .
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars .
Old men forget ; yet all shall be forgot ,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day . Then shall our names ,
Familiar in his mouth as household words ,
Harry the King , Bedford and Exeter ,
Warwick and Talbot , Salisbury and Gloucester ,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered .
This story shall the good man teach his son ,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by ,
From this day to the ending of the world ,
But we in it shall be rememberèd —
We few , we happy few , we band of brothers ;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother ; be he ne’er so vile ,
This day shall gentle his condition ;
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here ,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day .

Moy shall not serve . I will have forty moys , or
I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat in drops of
crimson blood .

As I suck blood , I will some mercy show .
Follow me .

Lives he , good uncle ? Thrice within this hour
I saw him down , thrice up again and fighting .
From helmet to the spur , all blood he was .

In which array , brave soldier , doth he lie ,
Larding the plain , and by his bloody side ,
Yoke-fellow to his honor-owing wounds ,
The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies .
Suffolk first died , and York , all haggled over ,
Comes to him where in gore he lay insteeped ,
And takes him by the beard , kisses the gashes
That bloodily did yawn upon his face .
He cries aloud Tarry , my cousin Suffolk .
My soul shall thine keep company to heaven .
Tarry , sweet soul , for mine ; then fly abreast ,
As in this glorious and well-foughten field
We kept together in our chivalry .
Upon these words I came and cheered him up .
He smiled me in the face , raught me his hand ,
And with a feeble grip , says Dear my lord ,
Commend my service to my sovereign .
So did he turn , and over Suffolk’s neck
He threw his wounded arm and kissed his lips ,
And so , espoused to death , with blood he sealed
A testament of noble-ending love .
The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
Those waters from me which I would have stopped ,
But I had not so much of man in me ,
And all my mother came into mine eyes
And gave me up to tears .

I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is
porn . I tell you , captain , if you look in the maps of
the ’orld , I warrant you sall find , in the comparisons
between Macedon and Monmouth , that the
situations , look you , is both alike . There is a river in
Macedon , and there is also , moreover , a river at
Monmouth . It is called Wye at Monmouth , but it is
out of my prains what is the name of the other river .
But ’tis all one ; ’tis alike as my fingers is to my
fingers , and there is salmons in both . If you mark
Alexander’s life well , Harry of Monmouth’s life is
come after it indifferent well , for there is figures in
all things . Alexander , God knows and you know , in
his rages and his furies and his wraths and his
cholers and his moods and his displeasures and his
indignations , and also being a little intoxicates in
his prains , did , in his ales and his angers , look you ,
kill his best friend , Cleitus .

No , great king .
I come to thee for charitable license ,
That we may wander o’er this bloody field
To book our dead and then to bury them ,
To sort our nobles from our common men ,
For many of our princes — woe the while ! —
Lie drowned and soaked in mercenary blood .
So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs
In blood of princes , and the wounded steeds
Fret fetlock deep in gore , and with wild rage
Yerk out their armèd heels at their dead masters ,
Killing them twice . O , give us leave , great king ,
To view the field in safety and dispose
Of their dead bodies .

All the water in Wye cannot wash your
Majesty’s Welsh plood out of your pody , I can tell
you that . God pless it and preserve it as long as it
pleases his Grace and his Majesty too .

Though he be as good a gentleman as the
devil is , as Lucifer and Beelzebub himself , it is
necessary , look your Grace , that he keep his vow
and his oath . If he be perjured , see you now , his
reputation is as arrant a villain and a Jack Sauce as
ever his black shoe trod upon God’s ground and His
earth , in my conscience , la .

’Sblood , an arrant traitor as any ’s in the
universal world , or in France , or in England !